Accompaniment
by Quiet2885
Summary: Supernatural. Modern. It's been with him since birth. Always slithering in his veins and mind…in every horrific decision he's made and every action he's taken. Yet just as he's determined to be free of it, she comes along. And perhaps then there was no saving either of them. Because what chance did a fragile girl and an unhinged deformed man have against pure evil? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to my little supernatural story! But don't let that genre scare you away. There are no vampires, werewolves, or extreme magic. My main source of inspiration besides POTO was _Paranormal Activity_, mainly the third one (I've only seen the first 3), and so it's a much more subtle supernatural.

This is a darker story, but I don't think this will be my darkest Erik. I hope that it has a kind of darkly sweet feel to it—Leroux-y sweet, I guess. So there's murder and morbidity but an underlying gentleness as well. Happy Valentine's Day? Lol.

Disclaimer: I sadly do not own the characters of _The Phantom of the Opera_. Everything belongs to Gaston Leroux. _Phantom_ is owned by Susan Kay.

**Enjoy!**

_1960_

The air smelled of late spring and rain. And something else that Irene couldn't quite identify.

Almost of death. But not the stench of decay or rot like when a squirrel became trapped in the walls of her rickety 1920's home. This odor was musty and damp, and she wrinkled her nose and wondered if there was some type of sewage problem in the nearest town.

A warm wind gusted over the green grass in front, blowing several strands of long blonde hair from Irene's bun and into her perspiring face as she hung sheets to dry. Sputtering dust and dirt from her mouth, she checked the greying sky. Storms were likely but probably nothing that would take the house down, no twisters. One hand absentmindedly fell to the lower half of her cotton housedress to keep it from blowing up in the wind. A year ago, a man in a red Chevy had driven by and whistled at her. "How I do love the view out here in Nebraska!" he'd called. "Yes, Siree!"

Little events like that made her appreciate that she currently had no men in her life and also regret it. A hopeless spinster, one great aunt had called her. Especially after her parents had passed on, the world seemed a little more isolating. They had left her their savings and the family home, and Irene had made the rest of her way by teaching and doing tailoring work for nearby families. Young women often brought her their wedding dresses for special alterations, and she was reminded of her unmarried status. Then again, Irene wasn't so lonely now-

"Mommy!"

She turned and smiled as the five-year-old child skipped down the concrete steps, a black-haired doll dangling upside down in her arms. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"It's hot! Um, can I play under the tree?"

She was referring to the blossoming catalpa tree in the front; they'd had many picnics and tea parties beneath it. "Yes. Give me a couple of minutes. And then I'll bring my book and join you. Okay?" The tree was near the road, and Irene didn't want her playing there by herself for very long. You saw things in the papers, child abductions and that kind of awfulness.

"Okay, Mommy! I'm going to get Julie, too!" Madeleine scampered back inside the white house to find her other doll. She tripped once on the last step but quickly dusted herself off and ran inside. Technically, Madeleine was her niece, but Irene had raised the child since birth. Maddy had added a touch of light to her life that she hadn't known was missing.

Once she was finished hanging bed sheets, Irene turned and watched as Maddy carried her two dolls outside and patiently waited by the steps. As Irene approached the house to grab her novel, she heard the little girl speaking to them.

"Um, yes. Yes, that's very nice. No. I don't want to. I don't want to do that. But we could eat." She glanced up. "Can we have cookies?"

"I think that can be arranged," said Irene. "I'll bring the shortbread ones, okay?"

"Okay!"

Irene brought out the box of pinwheel-shaped shortbread cookies and watched as Maddy settled her two dolls out around the red and blue striped blanket. The white blossoms rustled overhead in the breeze, and their sweet scent muffled the earlier stench in the air. Maddy was adorable in her sleeveless yellow sundress with purple flowers embroidered on the collar.

She'd make a lovely mother someday, Irene thought as she watched the five-year-old painstakingly care for her dolls. The stray thought placed a nervous sensation in the pit of her stomach as a conversation from five years ago returned to her. And as hard as she tried to push the affair way, it had stayed with Irene, hovering at the brink of her subconscious.

Then again, how could anyone forget a thing like that?

To this day, she did not know all the details. Angela had been far too private; the two sisters hadn't spoken in months. According to one acquaintance, Angela hadn't realized she was with child until the eighth month. And then she'd gone completely mad and tried to end her pregnancy through very dangerous means. Her husband, Jeffrey, had stopped her before she'd plunged a knife into her womb, and she'd been physically restrained and sedated at the nearest hospital. Irene had been summoned directly after the birth; her younger sister, her only sibling, was not going to survive. The doctors said something had ruptured internally, but Irene still believed that her sister had simply lost the will to live. The child would be fine.

Five years ago, Irene had arrived at her sister's deathbed and Maddy's birth bed, watching as the life drained from Angela's grey-green eyes. The baby wailed nearby. Angela's husband wasn't present.

They would learn hours later that Jeffrey was hanging from a wooden rafter in their house, a three-legged stool kicked out from beneath his bare feet. Neighbors had heard the Labrador growling and forced their way inside; the dog had been frantically barking at the swaying corpse. Irene hadn't known the man well, but he'd seemed generally pleasant and soft spoken from their brief encounters. There were those who claimed that Angela had driven him mad.

Her sister's breath had been raspy and her skin had been ice cold as she clutched Irene's hand in those last awful moments. She attempted to speak, but her words came out in a sputtering, bloody cough.

"What's wrong?" Irene had desperately asked. "Calm down, Angela. What are you trying to say?"

"What is it?" Angela finally managed to rasp. "Renie, what is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Boy or girl?"

"It's a baby girl," Irene had replied with tears streaming down her cheeks. "A beautiful baby girl! She has black curls just like you. And beautiful dark eyes. She's lovely, Angela."

"Thank the Lord. Lucky," Angela had whispered, collapsing back onto the pillow. She stared at the ceiling and smiled with only one lip curved upward. "I was lucky. So lucky. Thank you, Jesus. Oh, forgive me, Jesus."

"Lucky for what?" Angela's cold hand had suddenly wrapped around her wrist. "Ow. You're hurting me!"

Angela's smile faded, and she gaped upwards with nearly wild eyes. Her bluish lips trembled. She coughed twice, and a bead of saliva remained at the corner of her mouth. "Tell my daughter…you must tell her she must not-"

"Tell her what?" Irene had desperately asked.

"She cannot have a child. She must not _ever._ _Never. _Tell her she can't. Because I was lucky."

"What?_ Why?"_

"_Tell her that! _Because it-it might be a boy, Renie. It might be a b-boy."

"So what if it's a boy? What does that matter?"

Angela shook her head back and forth, her limp curls trembling. "C-can't….She can't…."

"But it doesn't make any sense, Angela!"

With her last bit of life, Angela had practically screeched, "Tell her she can't! Promise me you won't ever let her have children!"

"I p-promise," Irene had whispered if only to lessen the throbbing pain on her wrist. And to give her little sister a last moment of peace. "I'll tell her. I promise."

"Thank you, Renie. I'm-I'm so, so s-sorry." Irene's wrist was released, but the prickly cold had remained on her flesh. Angela's eyes rolled back into her skull, and her head hit the pillow with a morbid thud. All color drained from her face, leaving her as white as the pillow. Of course, Irene had immediately agreed to take in poor Madeleine.

The memory of that night still gave Irene chills.

But now she had a thriving, bright-eyed child who held none of that horror. They were very happy together in the home out in the countryside. Irene would certainly miss her company when she began school next year, but it would be wonderful for Maddy to have more children to play with. Birthday parties and slumber parties and all that sort of fun. There was only joy now.

Irene had never passed along Angela's message. Frankly, she never planned to do so. Because it didn't make any sense. It was madness! Telling her sweet little niece that she couldn't have children because her insane mother had ordered it on her deathbed?

Irene had a firm belief in God, but she didn't believe in _that _sort of thing. Angela was obviously not right of mind.

Maddy was softly speaking again. "No. I said we shouldn't. Please go away now."

"Are you talking to your dolls?" Irene asked as she settled on the blanket with her book and smoothed her housedress over her tanned legs.

Maddy looked up and smiled shyly. "No. My friend."

Irene smiled back. She'd had imaginary friends at that age, she supposed. Well, an imaginary dog that she'd pretended to walk on a piece of red yarn. Lulu, she'd named it. "What's your friend's name?"

"It doesn't have one."

"It? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Both. I don't know."

Irene chuckled at her little furrowed brow. She looked far too serious for a five-year-old. In fact, Maddy had seemed a little different since her fifth birthday, a bit more somber and quiet at times. Finally, Maddy turned back to her dolls, and the 'friend' seemed to be forgotten. They enjoyed the warm weather until the darker clouds finally rolled in and raindrops pounded their heads. Then, laughing, they ran back into the house together as thunder rumbled.

That evening, Irene put Maddy to bed early. While completing some mending for the nearby Johnsons, she listened to the news on the radio. Kennedy had won the California primary; she hoped he would win everything by November. The country needed a fresh young face. Russia was still angry about some type of military flight. If the two countries ever started throwing bombs at each other, she hoped central Nebraska would be the last place they'd hit. A typhoon in China. Irene finally nodded off over her needlework as the rain pattered on the roof and the sun set.

She was startled awake by a creak. Maddy was standing in the entryway of the living room, tear streaks on her scrunched up face. A teddy bear was clutched in her right arm.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" Irene carefully set her sewing to the side and held out her arms. Maddy ran forward and embraced her, curling up into a ball on her lap.

"I want it to go away now!" she said with a sob.

"What?"

"My friend."

"What? Maddy, your friend isn't real! Richard hasn't been scaring you with silly stories, has he?" The little boy was two years older than Maddy and lived down the road. He was polite around adults, but Irene knew he would often get into mischief when their backs were turned.

"No," Maddy whispered. "My friend just needs to go away now. Tell it, Auntie."

"Auntie?" Irene nervously swallowed. She hadn't planned on keeping it a secret forever - just until Maddy was old enough to understand concepts like death and childbirth. "How do you know that, sweetheart? How do you know I'm your—" Her voice tapered off. "Oh. Never mind."

Maddy fell asleep within minutes and was breathing quietly, her cheek pressed firmly against Irene's chest. Holding her little niece, Irene hummed the folksong that was her namesake. Her father had often liked to play it on his guitar, and Irene, Angela, and their mother would sing along. Back in the days when life seemed simpler. Irene came from a long line of relatives who had musical talent—piano, voice, fiddle.

Soon, she began to doze again, the rain on the roof its own sort of lullaby.

Hours later, Irene was briefly awoken by a strange, deep sigh in her left ear. It tickled her canal and caused a row of goose bumps to form along her arms. She opened her eyes and sat up straight, turning her head back and forth. The radio played a soft ballad. Maddy stirred in her arms. "Auntie," she murmured.

"Sh. Sleep, dear." Irene continued to gaze around the room. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Only the wind shook the house, causing it to groan every now and then. It must have been that.

And yet, after that day, Irene could never quite shake the feeling that they weren't alone.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm so happy that there's an interest in this type of story! I'm not going to say that this concept is entirely unique as far as modern cinema is concerned, but it also hasn't been explored in phan fiction very much. So once I had the POTO plot bunny, I finally couldn't resist carrying through with it. As far as length goes, I'm experimenting with shorter chapters in this story. It's a little easier on me editing-wise, and I think it fits the tone. So there could be a higher chapter count, but it won't be one of my longest stories. Thank you so much for all the support! **Enjoy!**

_2014_

"I just don't want him to think of me as the crazy girl."

"That's so silly! Of course he won't!"

"But he's this calm and normal person. I don't think he has any issues. He even puts the toilet seat down."

"That was a little too much information. But Christine. You're a normal person, too." Meg gave her a half-smile. "Just because you, you know, flipped out a tiny little bit when you were younger doesn't mean you're forever damaged. I used to eat chalk when I was four. Does that mean I'm permanently a chalk-eater?"

"You weren't checked into a psych ward because you ate chalk."

"I probably should have been. My mom has this picture of me. I'm wearing these ridiculous pigtails, and my mouth is covered in blue and pink."

They laughed together, and Christine's anxiety lessened somewhat. The growing noise was also drowning out some of her thoughts. It was the lunch hour, and campus was swarming with students that hot and sultry August. The lines would taper down when most of them figured out they couldn't afford to eat out every day unless their parents wanted to foot the bill. Christine probably shouldn't have been dining out either, but she wanted company that day. If she stayed alone with her worries for too long, she'd start making her problems seem bigger than they were. Meg tended to put things in perspective.

"Do you think he ever has to know?" Christine asked after a moment. Her tapered bangs fell into her eyes, and she brushed them away. She'd recently had her blonde hair cut directly beneath her chin, hoping the shorter style would be easier to manage, but that was proving untrue so far.

"Well, you've been dating for a year and half now. He has to know sometime, right?"

"Why? I have this vision in my head of me telling him and then he suddenly disappears in a cloud of dust."

"He's not a cartoon character. You know, it kind of makes you a more interesting person. No, don't give me that look. It does."

"I'd prefer to be less interesting," Christine replied, her gaze falling downward. "Or interesting in a good way. Like a child genius or a figure skater."

Meg ignored her last comment. "Raoul should know because it might accidentally come up someday. Someone might pull up your records when you're least expecting it. Or he might meet one of your family members, and they might tell him. Won't you feel better not hiding it? I've been in relationships with secrets, and it's never turned out well. Don't get me started on the dude who just got out of jail."

"I guess so."

"Besides, Christine. You're doing great, and that was ages ago."

Christine took a deep breath and slowly nodded her head. "You're right. I am better. A lot better. That happened when I was around fourteen. So what? Almost nine years ago?"

"Exactly!" Meg grinned. "This isn't that big of deal." She glanced down at her silver smart phone. "Ooh. I've gotta run." She shook her head and gathered everything together, almost knocking over her cup of soda in the process. Even frazzled, Megan managed to still look glamorous in a sweatshirt and leggings, her hair pulled into a tight black bun. "Grad school is going to be nuts."

"Good luck with everything. I'll talk to you later."

"Definitely. And it'll be fine. Just tell him. He's not going to care."

"Right."

Christine was grateful to have her best friend from high school back there. Meg had gotten an undergraduate degree at a smaller private college several states away, spent a year in New York unsuccessfully trying to 'make it big,' and was now looking to get her Master of Fine Arts in Dance. Christine had visited her once in New York City just for fun, and Meg had appeared gaunt and highly distressed.

"I knew it would be hard, just not this hard," Meg had admitted over severely overpriced coffee. Christine was out of money within days; she could only imagine how Meg was surviving. "The competition is crazy; these girls have been dancing before they could walk. My nerves are shot, I can barely eat, and then I have no energy. No wonder some of them take up smoking."

Several months later, Meg was back in their home state and heading down a more academic route. The color in her face was better, and she'd put on some needed weight. And, despite Meg's difficulties, she was still on a faster track to adulthood than Christine was.

Christine had met with an academic advisor yesterday, and it seemed she was still several semester's short of her bachelor's degree. That really wasn't a surprise as she'd taken two semesters off and changed her major three times. "Oh, don't worry about it," the man had said, grinning at her with a piece of spinach stuck to his top front tooth. His hair was tied back into a ponytail, and he was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt. "We get you wandering students all the time. You keep paying, you keep staying, right?"

That unprofessional comment reminded her that she needed to go to the financial aid office soon. Scholarships were getting harder and harder to come by these days, especially for 'wandering students.' Ignoring her loans didn't seem to make them go away.

The other day, Raoul had told her not to worry about all that. At first, she had thought he was being naïve to her circumstances. He had a trust fund, and his father owned a massive company that did something with mutual funds. He was already in the third semester of his MBA, more or less set for life. And so she'd angrily exclaimed, "Well, of course _you_ don't have to worry! A fifty thousand dollar education is a drop in the bucket for your family."

He'd turned a little red, cleared his throat, and said, "Well, I'm not saying it like that. I know it's expensive for you. I get that. I'm saying I'll help you out. We're together together, right?"

"Together together? Oh. Yeah, of course we are." Suddenly, she felt bad. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. Just stressed."

An awkward moment had passed before he started talking about the acrobatics performance that he was going to take her to that weekend. But she understood that Raoul was telling her not to worry because he saw a long-term future for them. If they did get married, he'd pay her student debts off without question. She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Uncertain. Grateful. Guilty. Relieved. Loved.

And she was still worried that it might all fall apart after her upcoming admission. Meg was right; she was being silly about it. Time to calm down.

She had about thirty minutes before work, and Christine knew what she needed to do. Picking up her canvas backpack, she found a quiet study room in the student union building and closed the door. Taking a seat on a cushy purple armchair, she closed her eyes and inhaled the scents of polished wood and freshly-brewed coffee from the nearby cafe. She sat up straight. She breathed in deeply for ten seconds and then exhaled for ten seconds. Doing this exercise several times, she cleared her mind in the silence. Once she could only see white in her head, she thought of five positive things in her life.

_One. I have an awesome boyfriend, and we're doing well. Two. I have a great best friend, and she's back! Three. I have musical talent. Four. I…_It was getting a little harder. _Okay, four. I'm in good health—both physically and, more importantly, mentally. Five._ _Um…good grades last semester. I get good grades. _Good enough.

She knew all of it. Breathing techniques and cognitive exercises that focused on drowning out the negative. Meditation. Yoga for the mind. The doctors had given up and attributed her bizarre problem to stress in the end. And so she'd been taught to manage anxiety so that it never, ever happened again. And it hadn't. There were the occasional, well—she referred to them as 'head tingles.' But that was far different than what had once occurred.

Feeling more relaxed, she left the room and headed for work, only a ten minute walk. She was a desk clerk at one of the university libraries. She'd first gotten a position through work study two years ago; she'd taken a meditation class under the woman who was now her main supervisor, and they'd become acquainted. Regina had enthusiastically told her to apply for the job because 'I can see how hard you try. And trying is what's so, so important.' And then she'd later been gracious enough to give Christine a part-time staff position with at least some health benefits.

Regina looked nearly giddy that afternoon. In a rather cynical world, she was one of the most optimistic people that Christine had ever met, always dressed in flowing long skirts and colorful scarves. Today, a string of lime green beads hung from her neck, and her greying hair was pulled back into a yellow headband that featured a bright fake sunflower on top. "Oh, Christine!" she exclaimed in her singsong voice. "When you have a break today, go take a look at the rare book collection. We acquired some really unique items with that grant. I know how you like the older things."

"But I can't touch them, right?" asked Christine with a laugh.

"Well, not unless you put on some gloves. And they're not even in English. But still—it's so exciting, isn't it?" She clasped her wrinkled ringed fingers together. "I just love all the old stuff, too. None of this digital nonsense. How can anyone even compare one of those silly e-readers to a good old-fashioned-" She was distracted by two boys skateboarding into the entryway, probably just using the library as a shortcut to their next class. "No, no, no. You can't do that here. No, gentlemen. We walk here, right? We _walk_!" They sheepishly laughed and hopped off their skateboards. Regina waved her index finger at them, and then they were all laughing together, including Christine.

And that was why she liked working there. In life, she searched for these little corners of calm. And places where no one would yell at her and where people smiled lots and frowned little.

She was going to be okay.

Because she had worked so hard to finally _be_ okay, and nothing was going to ruin that now.

* * *

><p><em>1974<em>

"I knew you'd be disappointed! That's why I didn't want to tell you."

"Well, of course I'm disappointed! I—you know, I wanted you to get a good education. Give yourself a chance in this world. I thought you were smarter than that. You're only in your second semester for goodness sakes!"

Maddy nodded, her shoulders hunched. "I know, Auntie. I know! But it just happened so fast. We went out to dinner after this boring party. And he was so handsome and smart. And he'd just gotten back so he had so many interesting stories to tell me."

"From overseas?"

"Yes. But he wasn't over there fighting in those awful jungles. He helped keep all their machinery running. And he said that helicopters can now be used for—"

"Well, have you told him?" Irene interrupted.

"No." Maddy stared down into her herbal tea. "He's so busy with his work. I was embarrassed. I couldn't!"

"So then now what?" Irene spread her hands out with her palms upward, becoming increasingly frustrated.

The younger girl paused and then leaned in, speaking in a softer voice even though they were the only ones there. The white frilly curtains in the kitchen rustled. The lights flickered once. "Kelly—my friend from school. She's going to be a nurse. And, well, she-she told me there was a very fast way to make it go away. Especially this early. So two weeks ago she took me to this place. It was this little brick building deep in the poorer part of the city. She drove me there and said she'd wait."

Irene's heart jumped. "And?"

"And it was…." Maddy's face paled. She took a curly strand of dark hair and twirled it on her index finger. "It was so strange."

"Strange? You mean the decision?"

"No. Well, that was part of it. I was torn. Part of me thought it'd be the best thing for everyone. And the other part of me didn't want to because, you know, I did want children someday. But then-then there was something else."

"What?"

Madeleine chewed on her bottom lip. "You'll think I'm crazy. But do you remember when I was younger? And I would feel like something was with me? I'd call it my friend."

"Yes," Irene murmured with a small shudder. "How could I forget that? You'd cry to me about it sometimes." It had later become their shared joke over the years. Whenever doors would close. Or the radio and, after Irene had given in and purchased one, the television would turn off without anyone pushing a button. Or a carton of milk or juice would tip over for no reason. They would both blame it on the ghost and laugh nervously.

Stranger yet, after Maddy had left to go to college on the west coast, Irene had noticed less peculiar activity in the home. She had felt alone there for the last few months. And now that Madeleine had returned, Irene again sensed that presence. An energy. The older woman told herself that she was being ridiculous. There was nothing there, only the two of them sipping tea in the cozy kitchen.

"It was like that again," Maddy softly continued. "When I was in front of that place, I could feel this force holding me back. Like it didn't want me to do that. I know that sounds ridiculous; it was probably just in my head. But I came here for your advice, Auntie. It was the last thing I could think to do."

Irene stared down at the pink tablecloth. "Well, I have my opinions on these things. But it is your decision. You'll have the child. You'll be the mother."

Madeleine frowned, her small nose crinkling. "Well, I guess I already know. I'm going to keep it. It's not what I wanted this soon, but I guess I'll manage."

Irene slowly nodded and then rose and gently embraced her niece. "All right. I guess we'll make do. We'll have to figure out your education, but there are closer colleges. And please consider telling the father, Maddy. Maybe he'll do the right thing."

"All right." Her tone didn't reassure Irene, but she left it alone. "Sometimes I don't feel like I have control over half the stuff that happens to me." Maddy continued to speak, her chin propped upon a fist. "Anyway, I miss it here." She looked around the lighted kitchen. "We baked so many cookies. And read so many stories. And played games. I have so many happy memories."

Irene smiled a little sadly. "I've missed having you here. It's lonely sometimes."

"You haven't tried to meet anyone?" asked Maddy with a small smirk.

"I'm getting too old for that."

"No, you're not!"

"Well, maybe if you thought less about _that_, you wouldn't be in this situation," Irene replied with a huff. "And as long as you're here with me, you will be going back to church. You'll have to hear the new pastor. Reverend Mansart is really excellent. He lives right down the road where Richard's family used to be. He always adds some humor to his sermons, and you can just tell he's a really good person."

"So do you like _him_ then, Auntie?"

"He's married, you silly girl!"

What began as a somewhat gloomy evening turned into a night of laughter. Irene told herself that everything would be okay despite this surprising news. Maddy could continue her education later. And babies were blessings. Irene had enjoyed raising Maddy and recalled the light that the child had brought to her home. She could sew more baby clothes together and buy some more toys, paint the walls and freshen the entire place up. Yes, Irene could see the good in this.

They spent the next few months quietly and as they used to when Madeleine was younger, gardening in the springtime weather and picking strawberries and dancing to music on the radio. Irene also tried to teach her niece a little more about sewing, but Maddy was never all that interested. She was content to be back home, though, and even commented, "I don't feel as terrible as they say you do. I don't get sick, I mean."

"I think it's different for every woman," Irene replied. "From what I understand, your mother didn't have many symptoms. If any."

"Lucky, I guess," Maddy murmured. She looked like she was about to ask something else, but her mouth closed. They'd had frank discussions about Angela in the past, and Irene had fully admitted that she didn't think her younger sister had been completely sane of mind. Maddy accepted it all well enough.

Yet sometimes—Irene would wonder about things, about Angela's last words. About the _something_ that neither of them could quite describe. But it was so much easier for them both to pretend that it was their imaginations. Because the alternative was unthinkable.

But it wasn't until five months into Maddy's pregnancy that something utterly bizarre occurred. Something that Irene could never get out of her mind.

They were at a local grower's market where nearby farmers would set up stands of freshly grown fruits and vegetables along a nearby road. It was a sunny day, but the wind was strong and coming in long gusts. Several of Irene's shingles had been ripped off during the night, the windows constantly rattling. The vendors at the market had to reinforce their stands and make sure nothing blew away. Many of them were discussing closing early. As Irene looked through a basket of butternut squashes, running her hands over the lumpy yellow skins, Madeleine stood nearby waiting to leave. Despite the warmer weather, she was wearing a long brown tweed coat to hide her pregnancy. Irene had warned her that she'd get too hot in that.

There was a large metal sign nearby, held up by thin steel bars, announcing the presence of a new car lot that had been built just down the road. The sign was gaudy and colored in bright yellows and reds, claiming great prices on used Dodges and Fords. An eyesore, Irene had absentmindedly thought when they pulled up to the roadside marketplace.

While Irene was in line and preparing to pay, a family of five parked near the sign and climbed out of their brown and white station wagon. A plump beagle that practically matched the car in color trotted out with them. The man, wife, and little girl walked to the fruit stands while the two older boys stayed behind and played with the dog. Maddy soon walked up to them and knelt down to give the beagle a scratch behind the ears.

Irene had turned to talk to a farmer. Suddenly, a nearby woman shouted, "Oh no! Oh no! Look out!"

Irene whirled back around. Directly above Maddy, the sign was dangerously tilted on its metal frame, about ready to blow down right on top of her and the dog. Hollering, the two boys started to run out from under it, making their way toward the left. Another gust of wind hit, taking several dollar bills right out of Irene's limp hand. She barely noticed. In her kneeling position, there was no time for Maddy to move as the large chunk of painted metal fell toward her. She could only gape upwards, her mouth frozen open in terror.

"No!" Irene released a choked scream and covered her lips.

Everyone else would claim that the sign simply blew to the left. The strong wind. _Fate._

But Irene knew better. That sign didn't blow away from Maddy. The sign literally hovered in midair, untouched by gravity for a full two seconds. And then, as though shoved by a pair of enormous invisible hands, it swerved to the left. It fell with a scraping, metallic crash, smashing one of the little boys beneath it as the mother screamed. Several men raced forward to move the sign off the child.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"Someone call an ambulance!"

Madeleine knelt on the ground, trembling. The frightened dog had scampered several feet away. Irene finally recovered from her shock and ran over to her niece. She fell to her knees, and they gripped onto each other, crying.

The boy survived, but both his legs were badly broken in several places. He recovered but walked with a permanent limp afterwards. And an ordinance was soon passed regarding the quality of signs placed along the roads.

The event left them both shaken, and Maddy reported not sleeping well over the next few nights. Irene never told Maddy what she had seen that day. She didn't tell anyone. And the only sign that anyone else was aware was when that little boy's mother had given them a squinty-eyed glance in church.

But, of course, what could it have been but the wind?

Because to call it anything else would be admitting that there was something really happening. And that just couldn't be. Things like that didn't occur, and Irene hadn't spent over fifty years being practical to give it all up now.

The eight month arrived. A couple weeks passed.

The evening was calm and peaceful with a bright full moon. Madeleine was lying on the sofa with her feet propped up on a throw pillow, her eyes closed and the laugh track from _The Mary Tyler Moore Show _ringing out into the room. Irene glanced at her niece's very swollen stomach as she passed by with some folded laundry, wondering how much longer it might be. The lights flickered twice, and that reminded Irene of her next task. Grabbing the yellow phone book off the counter, she went into her bedroom and propped the heavy directory on her legs. She needed to find someone who could fix the worsening lighting problem. Her normal handyman had left town, and she didn't know if he was qualified for this kind of thing anyway. Was it going to result in a whole rewiring? She certainly didn't need the expense.

As she was browsing over the book, focusing in on electricians, a draft of air caught a page and turned it. With a grunt, Irene turned the page back. The thin piece of paper floated forward again. "Oh, for heaven's—"

"_Help me!"_ Maddy's scream echoed through the home.

Her head snapped up, and Irene started to jump off the bed and make her way toward the door. The white sheet wrapped around her ankle, causing her to stumble and hang upside down over the bedside. Gasping, she twisted around and worked to untangle herself. The sheet gripped onto her more firmly, the knot tightening like a noose on her leg. The door to her room slammed close with a crash, vibrating throughout the house. "No, no, no!" Irene cried. "Someone help me!" Yet no one could hear her. They were alone.

Or perhaps they weren't.

Finally, she got her ankle untangled from the sheets. She ran toward the door and grabbed the silver knob, twisting it with all her might, but it wouldn't budge. She pounded her fist against the door as Madeleine's sobs sounded out. "Auntie, help me!"

"No! Madeleine!" Irene threw herself against the door until her shoulder was sore and bruised. Over and over and over. _Clunk. Clunk. Clunk._

After five minutes of Maddy crying and Irene hurling herself into the unyielding wood in a horrific cacophony, the door finally gave way. Irene went flying out of the room and onto her hands and knees in the carpeted hallway. With a groan of pain, she crawled forward several feet on her elbows and then forced herself up. "Maddy?! Where are you?"

The lights flickered as Irene followed her niece's sobs into the kitchen. She gaped downwards.

Madeleine's water had broken. She was sitting on the ground with her legs spread beneath her denim skirt and her back up against the sink cabinet, crying and clutching her stomach. Her red face was drenched in sweat that blended with her tears.

"Oh my God. I need to call an ambulance," said Irene, turning toward the living room. "I have to call an ambulance. Hold on. Please hold on."

Maddy shook her head, her limp curls flying in every different direction. "No. Please don't leave me. Please," she sobbed. "There isn't time now! There isn't time!"

Irene had to at least make the call. Even if it was too late, someone would still be on the way to help in the aftermath.

She picked up the phone, her hand hovering over the rotary dial. "No! Damn it!" She cursed for maybe the fifth time in her life and slammed the receiver back into its holder.

The phone was dead.

"_Auntie, it's coming!"_


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to this chapter, I've read enough articles to deliver an emergency baby. Lol. I tried to not be overly graphic with the birth, but some details were necessary for realism.

Thanks to everyone for all the reviews and support. It's time to meet Erik :) I'm hoping to make this one a little less Kay and a little more Leroux. We shall see how that goes.

_1974_

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Okay." Irene placed her perspiring face into her hands. "You'll have to do this. Okay. God help me." She whispered this to herself and took several deep breaths. For now, she pushed what had happened in the bedroom from her mind. Coming back to her niece's side in the kitchen, she knelt. "Maddy, sweetheart. Look at me." Pained dark eyes gazed up at her. "If it's coming, then it's coming. We'll have to do this together and get more help later. Okay?"

Maddy slowly nodded. A gasp escaped her lips, and her face scrunched up in pain. "It happened so fast," she managed to whisper. "And then I called and called for you."

"I know. I couldn't get to you. But let's not worry about that now. We'll get through this. Women have been doing it for thousands of years." Irene had never birthed a baby, but she had heard many stories growing up in rural areas. It could go well, or it could be a complete disaster. This one was progressing very rapidly; she hoped that didn't mean anything bad for the baby or mother.

Irene quickly gathered some towels and a wet, warm washcloth. As the lights flickered, she helped her niece remove her lower clothing and tried to situate her into the best position for a quick birth. Exhausted and trembling, Maddy became dizzy and wanted to lie back, so Irene worked with this instead. The next ten minutes went as one would expect. Gasping and pushing and panting and crying.

Her own heart pounding, Irene murmured reassurances. The flashing lights were going to give her a seizure soon. The windows rattled, and there was no breeze that night. A thick presence hung around them, an invisible sheet that felt suffocating. The lights dimmed. "Oh. I see it," Irene whispered.

"Thank God! It hurts so much!"

Beginning to finally feel relief, Irene reached down to slowly guide the head out. "Gently keep pushing," she told a sobbing Maddy. Irene's own forehead was drenched in sweat. Yet the home seemed strangely colder than it had earlier.

With a cry, Madeleine gave a fierce push. Irene saw shoulders and arms. "Almost there." An eerie silence passed as Irene worked to turn the newborn all the way around. She felt all color drain from her face. Irene blinked rapidly, but the image didn't go away. Her bloodied hands nearly dropped, and she closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her. "Oh…."

"What?" Maddy whispered, unable to see and out of breath. "Is it here?"

"Don't look, Maddy. Please don't look."

"_Why?"_

"I'm so sorry." A sob escaped Irene's lips. "But it's not alive. The baby's not alive. I'm so, so sorry. Don't look!" Yet Irene forced herself to glance down again. She suppressed a choke as vomit rose up in the back of her throat. She had seen dead people before but never one in an actual state of decay. And certainly never an infant. Had it started to rot in the womb? Was that even possible? "I'm so sorry." Madeleine only stared up at the ceiling and released a soft cry.

Unable to look at the face again, Irene gathered the tiny corpse into several thick towels and bundled it up. As best as she could without becoming ill, she cleaned off the nearly translucent white skin with the washcloth. With sharp scissors, she quickly dealt with the cord, using threads as clamps and not taking much care. Because what did it matter now? She made sure its face remained hidden so that her niece never had to see.

Would they bury it in baby clothes? It was a stray thought that passed through her mind. _Something blue…._

All the lights in the house snapped off at once. Irene gasped, and Maddy moaned. Slowly, Irene found her niece's hand, squeezing it for mutual comfort. "We'll be fine."

And then, in the pitch-black darkness, something cried. Irene jumped.

"I thought you said it was dead," said Madeleine with a choke. Irene could feel her try to sit up. "It's not! It's crying! It's not dead at all! Oh, it's alive!"

"No," Irene whispered, placing a hand over heart. "It can't be—"

"What's wrong? It's alive! It's alive, Auntie. And we can't even see anything."

"Maddy…."

"What is it? Boy or girl?" Madeleine eagerly asked.

"Boy."

_Because it-it might be a boy, Renie. It might be a b-boy._

The noise was most definitely a baby's cry, yet it was one of the prettiest ones that Irene had ever heard. Musical like a chorus of angels singing in unison—almost lulling the listener into sleep. But how could it - _he_ possibly be alive?

"Can I hold him while you find some candles?" Maddy softly asked.

"Maddy—there's something you should know."

"What? Let me hold him! He's mine, isn't he?" Madeleine was grappling for the baby in the dark. Finally, she found the bundle of towels, and Irene didn't stop her from scooping him up. The infant quieted as he was held. "We'll have to name him. What's wrong, Auntie? Why are you being so strange?"

_Please let the lights stay off until I can tell her._

Yet it was as though the fourth party in that room wanted everything to disintegrate as quickly as possible. It fed off their fear and horror.

"Maddy, listen to me," Irene quickly began, leaning forward. "The baby's face! It's—"

The lights flashed on again.

A silence passed as their eyes adjusted.

Irene's eardrums were shattered as Madeleine screeched. The baby screamed as he was dropped a short distance to the kitchen floor, the towels somewhat breaking the fall. Leaving a spotty trail of blood behind her, Madeleine groaned and scrambled on her hands and knees to the nearest corner of the kitchen. She curled up into a ball. The windows rattled, and the floor shook beneath them.

Irene didn't feel sane in this nightmare. She wanted to run inside her closet and do as Madeleine was now doing, huddle into herself until it all went away. Irene glanced down at the uninjured baby with a hand over her mouth, still unable to believe that he was actually breathing and crying and moving. Shaking her head, she went to her niece and again knelt at her side. They could no longer handle this alone.

"Madeleine, look at me. Right now. Look at me, dear." The young girl slowly gazed up with a vacant expression. "I need to find help. Do you understand? But the phone is dead. So I need to try to find someone else or another phone."

"No! Don't leave me here with them!" Maddy panicked. "Not with them."

"With _them_?" Irene whispered. She didn't continue that conversation further. "Or I can try to take both you and the baby to a hospital. And maybe they can do something to fix…well, all of this."

Maddy shook her head and spoke in a rambling and mumbled voice. "No! If you take the baby, the other one will come with you. Because it wants the baby. And not me. It said it didn't want me anymore. So I'm okay here. I'm free! And you can be okay, too, Auntie. Just get rid of it, and they'll both go away. They'll both go away forever!"

"Sweetheart, I think you're ill. You're not making any sense." Irene spoke very slowly, as though talking to a small child. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"No! I'm not going with you until you make them both go away!"

"Fine," Irene said, running a hand over her face. "Fine." She didn't have the strength to both get the baby obviously needed medical attention and to force her traumatized niece to come with them. "Are you in a lot of pain?" Maddy shook her head. The bleeding had nearly stopped and the placenta had been expelled; there was no evidence that Maddy was in immediate danger. "I am going to take the baby, and I'm going to find help now. You wait here until I can get you help, too. Don't move. Okay?" Maddy stared forward into space. Irene spread a wood blanket over her and placed a folded fleece covering beside her bare feet.

As she dug out an infant carrier that they had recently purchased, Irene wondered if the baby would even survive the journey. He had to be near death, right? And yet his cry was so strong and healthy….

She considered driving straight to the hospital but didn't want to leave Maddy alone for that long. Maybe a friend would help them? After making sure the straps in the carrier were secure, Irene put the infant on the floor of the passenger's seat. They hadn't put a car seat in the vehicle yet, and there was no time to mess with that now. Her hand trembled with the car keys as she forced them into the ignition. The baby cried next to her, which both made her nervous and also want to fall asleep. That was a toxic combination for driving. Irene turned the key. The Ford Torino made a rumbling noise but wouldn't start. She tried again. The engine sputtered. And again. And again. "No, no! Damn it! No!" Again and again.

Irene leaned forward and collapsed sobbing onto the steering wheel. Her headlights flashed on and off. Her horn blared. The baby wailed. And for several minutes there was simply no hope or solution—only loud, chaotic noise.

As she finally raised her head with tears streaming down her cheeks, Irene looked to the side and saw something slowly coming forward down the road. Approaching headlights, their bright yellow glow a last of beacon of hope. Someone was coming! Irene gasped and stumbled out of her car. She waved both arms at the vehicle, immediately recognizing the light green paint. The car quickly pulled to the side nearest her, sending a cloud of dust into the air. A familiar man jumped out. "Irene? Are you okay?"

His voice was deep and pleasant. He was tall with salt and pepper hair and a lean build. His face was always clean shaven, and his clothes were always pressed. Even though he was married, Irene supposed she did have a slight fondness for him. And now he was her savior.

She ran toward him at full speed with her arms out in front of her, terrified that the _something_ would stop her. But she made it and nearly collapsed in his arms, gripping onto him for dear life. "What in the world?" he asked. "What's wrong? Are you in trouble? Is someone out here?" He looked toward her crazed vehicle. "What's going on with your car?"

"Reverend, please help me. _Please._ Maddy just gave birth. And-and-"

"Oh! Did you call for an ambulance?"

"My phone is dead," she sobbed. "My car won't start."

"Oh, wow! Well, that is terrible luck! Let me go to my house and try my phone. Or maybe I should just take you there myself. It's a twenty minute drive, I think. Let me—"

"Wait!" she gasped, grabbing his shoulder. "Please stay for a second. You don't understand what I'm…. Please just see what I'm-I'm…."

"But I'm not a doctor. I can't really help—" He again looked at her Ford. "Did you leave something on the horn? What happened to your car?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" Irene gripped the front of his shirt. "My niece is nearly catatonic. My great nephew has the face of someone who's been dead for a month. And there is _something_ out here!"

"What? Your great nephew what?"

She ran back to her crazed car and pulled out the infant carrier from the passenger side. The vehicle quieted and the lights stopped flashing. The baby continued to softly cry. Irene brought him to Reverend Mansart and held up the carrier. "Brace yourself," she murmured before pulling back the towel.

"Oh my." Even in the dim light, she could see his handsome face pale as he quickly averted his eyes from the infant's face. "Well. I've never see anything like - Well, we have to get him to a hospital, right? Maybe they can do something. We have to pray for that." He glanced toward her car. "Where's Maddy? She must need help, too."

"She's inside. She won't come because she thinks the thing will follow the baby."

"The _thing_?"

"The thing," she miserably replied, finally acknowledging its existence. "You know, I'm afraid it might tip the car over if we try to go. Blow out a tire. Knock a tree or sign on top of us. It doesn't want me to go. It's been trying to stop me all night. I don't understand. Angela, she—this is all her fault! It—I can't- I don't-"

"Woah. Calm down. Take a deep breath." The Reverend gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "All right. Let's go inside for a moment and find Maddy. Then we'll figure out the rest." Irene nodded and swallowed her panic. He glanced at the infant as they walked up the driveway. "The baby seems healthy enough, doesn't he? Given the circumstances."

"He does. I don't understand how that could be. I don't understand anything right now."

Gripping the baby carrier, Irene quickly led him inside her home. As soon as they entered, the lights began to flicker again. Ignoring them, she quickly walked into the kitchen to check on her niece. Now covered in both blankets, Madeleine was still huddled in the corner and staring at the floor. She looked up when they entered. "Reverend!" Maddy yelled, reaching up for him with her fingers spread. "Please help!"

"It'll be fine, Maddy," he murmured. Yet Reverend Mansart stared at all of it with wide eyes. The windows rattled, and the radio turned on and off, switching stations each time. His face paled, and he stepped backwards. One of his hands reached out and gripped the back of a wooden chair. "God help us."

"Do you see?" whispered Irene. "What is it? What's happening?"

"I know what you're asking me," he hoarsely replied, continuing to gaze around the home and take steps backward. To Irene's relief, he managed to keep himself from running out the door. "But, Irene, that's not my…. I'm not trained in this sort of thing. I've heard some stories in seminary and at conferences. But I can't tell you what this is." He paused and took a deep breath. "But I can feel it." He closed his eyes. "I've never felt anything like it. I've never seen anything like this. So much evil in one place..."

"We've always felt it," said Irene, hugging her arms against her chest. She briefly described their experiences and told him about Angela's last moments. "Does that help? Do you have any idea?"

"No. I don't know," he admitted. "I have no experience with any of this. But I will try to find you someone who does. I promise."

The baby cried loudly. Maddy flinched at the sound and curled into herself. "No, no, no," the young girl muttered.

"I bet he's hungry," said Irene in a weary voice. "We bought some powdered formula in case of some type of emergency. Not a lot, but it'll do for tonight."

"Shouldn't Madeleine—"

Irene gave him a harsh look. "If you can persuade her to get near that baby, you're a much more powerful man than you say you are."

A silence passed as they stood under the flashing lights of the kitchen and tried to decide where to go from there. Suddenly, the Reverend placed a hand on his chin in thought. He looked between Maddy and the baby. "Hmm."

"What?" asked Irene.

"It's just a feeling, I guess, based on what you've told me. So don't take it as truth. But, whatever is in this house—I think it wants us to abandon the baby. And it wants Maddy to fear him."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Irene replied, standing beside him and wringing her hands. "If she doesn't take care of him, won't he die?"

"That's a good point. But hm. Don't mind me here." Reverend Mansart took several steps toward the infant carrier. He made a tight fist with his right hand and raised it high into the air. He quickly began to bring it down as though to pummel the baby.

"What are you doing?!" exclaimed Irene. Just as she spoke, the Reverend stumbled backward and into the kitchen counter with a thud. It looked as though someone had shoved him in the chest. "Oh!"

Reverend Mansart groaned and rubbed his back as he steadied himself. His expression became more disturbed now that he had actually felt it. "I'm fine. But there you have it. I think it would take a lot to harm that infant," he somberly stated. "Far more than starvation. Or lack of care or medical attention."

"The sign," Irene murmured. "The _thing_ stopped it from crushing Maddy when she was pregnant." She shook her head in horror. "What can we do? How do we stop this?!"

"Like I said, I'll find you some real help. In the meantime, I don't know. I guess you can resist it. If it wants the baby, don't give in. Don't give up."

Irene slowly nodded. After a moment, she knelt beside Madeleine and took the girl's cold, clammy hand. "Sweetheart, did you hear the Reverend? If you hold your baby and maybe feed him, you'll be helping. That will help fight this terrible thing in our home. We have to fight it."

Maddy shook her head back and forth. "I can't! Please don't make me! Please just make it go away! Please, Auntie!"

"Oh, Maddy," Irene whispered. "I can put a blanket over his face, if that will help. I could even sew him a little mask."

"Leave me alone! Get me out of here, or leave me alone!"

Irene withdrew and sat down on the kitchen floor, defeated and unable to believe all of this. The Reverend crouched and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll call someone who can help," he said. "I promise."

"Is this like that movie that came out last year?" Irene sickly asked. She hadn't even seen it, but she'd heard it was completely terrifying. A little girl—possessed by a horrific demon.

"I don't know." He sighed and stood. "Let me take Maddy to the hospital. She needs to be away from here, and someone should examine her. I think she's in shock right now. Maybe after she's had some time away, she'll come around."

"What about the baby?"

His green eyes became sadder. "Like you said earlier, I'm—Well, I'm terrified that my car might flip over. I have two kids, Irene. I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"I don't think the baby is in physical danger. I don't think he needs a medical professional. The face—nothing can change that now. And I think you need a different sort of professional."

They helped a trembling Madeleine to the front door. The young girl clung to the Reverend's side, crying.

"One more favor," said Irene as she watched them leave and desperately wished she could go with them.

"Yes?" Reverend Erik Mansart asked, turning toward her with very tired eyes.

"Can I name him after you? Maybe it would be good luck in this…situation. Naming him after a man of God."

"Of course. Erik's a good, strong name. At least I've always thought so." They shared a very somber chuckle.

When they were gone, Irene walked like a zombie into the kitchen and prepared the formula. She managed to feed the baby from the carrier with her eyes focused on the wall. She wept as she did so. As the lights flashed and the radio turned on and the television turned off. Because she didn't think any of them were ever going to be okay again.

How much more of this could she handle before she simply gave the _thing_ what it wanted?

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

He wondered if someone had yet discovered that a four thousand dollar mahogany casket was missing.

It'd taken a little effort to get it down there. He'd paid a couple of deviants through a third party to deliver the coffin. And then monitored their work from the shadows to make sure that the idiots didn't mess up or learn too much about his new hideaway. The ordeal had been well worth it, though. The death box had a soft white interior and golden hinges. It was the most luxurious one he could find in the area.

He supposed university students didn't heavily invest in caskets. They believed themselves to be invincible at that age with their fast vehicles and over-consumption of substances. How very wrong they were. Because, if anyone knew about invincibility, it was him.

He taunted with the coffin. _I am as good as dead now. See this?_

This box was the closest he could come to death. He remembered his attempt at peace three years ago. That had been the only time _it_ had ever taken physical control of him. An actual possession, he supposed. _It _had gathered every bit of strength and power, forcing him to remove the pistol from his mouth and set the weapon down upon the table.

That was the moment he'd understood, through a thought fed into his mind, that his sentence would last at least another forty or fifty years. A natural lifetime - that had been the bargain, a bargain that he'd had no say in. The knowledge had enraged him.

So that was the deal. Fine. He would find another way. Or make do.

Unfortunately, _its_ anger was physically manifesting.

Except for two days in his life - two days that he barely remembered and that had ultimately led him to this point - he'd always been hideous. But now his skin was actually disintegrating. Blisters and sores covered every inch of his body. He bled red once the gashes in his dry flesh were too deep. Otherwise, there was nothing human about his appearance. He even smelled of a corpse now—dank and moldy. He imagined he would soon reek of actual decay.

Still, he was apathetic to all of this. He would not listen to_ it_.

And that's why _it_ was irate.

After spending two decades in the Middle East doing _its_ bidding, he was tired of being a slave and bored with being a puppet. The role was beneath him. Without _its_ favor, he could have nothing. But there was nothing he really wanted anymore. Not for the price.

That evening, in a damp basement several yards below the earth, he rubbed ointment onto each inch of his flesh to ease the burning pain. The clear cream was somewhat soothing.

Tomorrow, he would continue his never-ending search. For now, he would rest.

Standing, he turned on Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 on an old portable record player. He preferred the unique sound quality to that of CDs, digital music, and everything else mankind had created in the name of progress. As though _progress _would save them all. He climbed into the coffin and closed his eyes.

After about five minutes, the music suddenly snapped off.

His hollowed eyes opened, and his twisted lips curved upward.

He found it rather comical that _it_ had resorted to such asinine behavior. How pathetically desperate.

"Erik is winning," he softly taunted, embracing the silence instead.


	4. Chapter 4

So after this chapter, there will be one more major flashback, and then we'll stay primarily in the present. Thank you so much for all the kind reviews.

_1974_

Madeleine never came back.

The Reverend had been good enough to return three days later and stay with the baby while Irene visited her niece at the hospital. He took a slow seat at the kitchen table, clutching a silver cross with his right hand, nervously glancing up at the lights. For whatever reason, the home had quieted somewhat since the night of the birth. All the appliances and the phone were working again, but Irene didn't dare take the baby anywhere in the car. Little Erik slept in a carrier at Reverend Mansart's feet, by all appearances a corpse save for the rise and fall of his chest.

Before leaving, Irene weakly asked the Reverend why the thing hadn't injured or even killed them by this point. It had only seriously hurt someone when the baby was directly threatened.

Reverend Mansart hesitated before answering, "Well, let's not tempt it. Maybe there are rules. Maybe…." His eyes settled on the carrier. He frowned toward the sleeping infant and then softly continued, "Maybe that's why it wants a human being in the first place - to do what it cannot."

Irene covered her mouth with her hand as a chill raced through her blood. Then again, what had she been expecting the thing to want? World peace? Its evil intentions could be felt in every corner of the house.

Irene approached Maddy's bedside in the hospital. Covered in a sterile white blanket, her niece was pale and had dark circles beneath her eyes. They exchanged a sideways hug, and Maddy said she was in no pain. The doctors had found no internal injuries. Madeleine would recover fully, at least physically. Irene hesitantly asked, "When do you think you'll come home then?"

Maddy looked away. "Are you keeping him?"

"Yes. Of course." Irene clasped her hand. "Maddy, he's your baby!"

"No, he's not." She shook her head back and forth as though willing away a bad dream. "He belongs to the other one. Couldn't you see that?"

"The Reverend thinks we have choices. We can fight this."

"I can't," Maddy whispered. "Didn't you see what he looks like?"

"Yes. But maybe with time-"

"If the face were our only problem, oh, maybe…maybe I would try. But the thing will always be there. Until it kills us!"

"We don't know that."

"Come with me, Auntie. Let's leave and go somewhere else. Come with me back to school. We'll be safe and have fun together. We can forget this ever happened."

"I can't just abandon the baby," Irene murmured. "He's as innocent in this as we are."

Maddy looked away, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the sheets, perhaps afraid that Irene would drag her away. "I can't go back there. Even if that thing doesn't kill me, I'll lose my mind if I go back there."

Irene knew that she was going to lose this argument. "Did…did the thing actually speak to you?" she finally asked. "That night, you seemed to know that it didn't want you anymore. Did you hear it?"

Maddy shuddered. "No. But it was like I suddenly had a thought in my head that wasn't mine. Not a voice, only a thought. And it told me I would be okay. If I—"

"Abandoned your baby?" Irene offered and then felt guilty. Maddy again looked away. Irene leaned forward and embraced her. They both cried into each other's shoulders for several minutes. "I love you, Maddy. You're like my daughter. Whatever you decide, that won't change. But I wish…."

Maddy used the blanket to wipe away her tears. "Please come with me," she hoarsely begged. "You'll get hurt if you stay!"

"I can't, dear," Irene replied, drawing back. "I can't just surrender to this thing. It doesn't feel right. Whatever Angela started, I want to stop it. Before anyone else is hurt."

Within a week, Madeleine left to stay with a friend until she could return to school. Once classes began, she more or less pretended that the last nine months had never existed. Whenever she and Irene phoned each other, they never discussed the baby or the thing. Irene would listen while Maddy talked about school, parties, and cute boys. In some ways, those chirpy conversations were Irene's own sort of escape.

She desperately dug through old family records to see if there was pertinent information about the past. Absolutely nothing. Finding a few phone numbers, she tried to call acquaintances from years ago who had lived near Angela. They had either left the area or died, and no one had any clue as to what Irene was talking about. _Who's Angela?_

She finally got into touch with an elderly man who said that, after her marriage, Angela would often run into the nearby woods with a raven-haired girl. They would disappear into the trees barefoot and carrying white cloth sacks; they would stay until dark. A couple of boys had eventually stumbled across a decapitated squirrel, and a young couple found bundles of sticks that had been tied together with ropes into strange pointy shapes. Neighbors began to whisper that the girls had to be involved in some strange sort of rituals, but, of course, the world was too modern by that time to make official accusations.

"And I don't believe in that sorta thing," said the man with a snort. "I think them two girls were off foolin' around like some womenfolk like to do, if you catch my drift. Not that I pay mind to that; I mind my own business 'bout that stuff. But I think they was back there kissin'—not doin' the black magic."

The man said that this other girl eventually disappeared altogether, perhaps moving away. Angela had then, to her husband's relief, quietly settled down and stopped racing off into the woods. That was the end of the old man's tale. Irene found nothing that told her the identity of this other girl.

Reverend Mansart did as he promised. Over the next year, Irene welcomed a long string of visitors into her home. Priests, of course. A sheikh. A rabbi. Mystics and seers and a woman who claimed she could talk to the dead. A couple of them ran out of the house screaming, especially if the thing was in a particularly terrible mood, rattling windows and slamming doors shut. Some didn't believe her at all if they arrived when the thing was too calm. They would make comments like, "You're just doing this because that awful movie came out and you want attention."

To Irene's relief, her home was isolated enough not to attract too much notice from newspapers or television stations. She hung up on nosy busybodies when they called. And, oddly, the thing became very quiet and calm when journalists approached the house. For whatever reason, _it _didn't seem to want to draw too much attention to itself either.

Some religious figures believed her and did try to help. Ultimately, though, they would tell her that this was beyond them. No amount of chanting verses from holy books or holy water or crosses or even prayers would make the thing go away. Then there was one medium who said: "What you need are many more crystals. Crystals will help you fight the negative energy. You want me to get you crystals? I give you a big discount."

"No, thank you," Irene had replied, rubbing a hand over her aching forehead. "I think we've done what we can do for today." As though the thing agreed with her, a door in the house slammed, waking up the baby. The woman ran out of the house in a flash of green and purple scarves.

Except for the very obvious, the baby was generally like any other during his first year. He ate and napped and cried. His occasionally visible yellow eyes were much more intelligent than the eyes of other infants. He could focus quickly on movement, and his reflexes were fast. If Irene dangled anything in front of him, his tiny hand would grab the object before she could react. Whenever Irene was around little Erik, she could feel him watching her, studying her. She could also sense the thing hovering around him.

All of this created constant anxiety. Her stomach was tied into a knot, and her headaches became progressively worse. Even on nights when the baby didn't wake her, she received little sleep. Only Reverend Mansart's visits once a week gave her a chance to escape the house and shop or get a haircut or just…_breathe_ for a moment.

Sensing her desperation, Reverend Mansart finally secured her a visitor who gave her the closest thing to an answer. He was a very elderly priest summoned all the way from Italy, a portly man with a very thick accent. He walked through the house in his black robe, studying it all through thick glasses beneath bushy grey eyebrows. His hands stayed clasped behind his broad back. He barely reacted as the light flickered and only tilted his head to the side and clicked his tongue three times when she showed him the baby's bare face. Usually, she put a white cloth mask on Erik whenever visitors came to the house. The elderly priest insisted on viewing Erik immediately, though. At the very least, he seemed to be a man who had witnessed some horrible things in his lifetime.

Finally, the priest stopped walking and motioned for Irene to sit with him at the kitchen table. "Do you want anything to drink?" Irene asked, nervously wringing her hands.

"No."

She took a seat across from him. He stared down at the table and pursed his large lips together. He cleared his throat.

"Well?" Irene asked, growing increasingly desperate.

"I cannot 'elp you," he said, finally looking up. "I am sorry."

"_Why?"_ she snapped, unable to hide her frustration. "Why can't you help me? You were highly recommended. You've done things like this before!"

"This not like that," he said, taking her shaking hand into his wrinkled ones. "This is a bargain. So _esorcismo_ will not work."

"A bargain? What on earth is the difference? It's a possession, isn't it?"

"It's not what you think. Possession is…unnatural…unstable. Ah!" He spotted a baby toy on the carpet, one where you insert colorful wooden blocks into holes that match their shape. Picking up the toy, the priest took a square and tried to force it into a circular hole. "See? Not fit well. That is what you are thinking of. Possession."

"Then what is _this_?" she whispered, spreading out her hands.

He hesitated and then placed the square block next to the circular block. "The child was born to 'ave it. A companion. A bargain was made with - I do not know." But he gestured to the floor and whatever was beneath it.

"So it's a possession that nothing can be done about?"

"It's not as you think," he reiterated.

"What do you mean?!" Irene nearly shouted.

The old man tightened his grip on her hands. "_Spontanea volontà_," he stated, unfazed by her frustration. "Free will. There is still free will."

"I don't understand."

"Erik can choose to listen or not. It cannot control Erik unless Erik chooses to obey."

"Oh," Irene whispered. She considered this in the silence. "So he just needs to ignore it? Is that what you're saying? He can choose to ignore it?"

"Yes." Irene nearly started to feel better, but then the priest frowned and hesitantly added, "But it will be _very _difficult. To not listen to _it _will be very…." He paused. "You must teach Erik that his time on Earth will be full of pain. _Tortura._ He will not have a good life without the evil one's favor. This is a terrible, terrible bargain." He shook his head.

"And what if he does listen to it?" Irene dared to ask.

"Erik may be rewarded; others will suffer very terribly."

She sickly swallowed as it all became painfully clear. "So I'm supposed to teach Erik not to listen to it—for the good of everyone else. But also that is life will be awful if he doesn't listen to it. And he's just supposed to…_endure_ it? That's what I have to explain?"

"When Erik is older, yes. _And_ that reward will come in next life, yes? Yes?"

"Yes," Irene whispered, staring at her lap.

Before he left, the priest turned, touched her shoulder, and said, "It is very, very dangerous here. You must know that, too. The other one doesn't want you here. It's dangerous."

"Then what should I do?"

"Be strong," was his simple and unhelpful reply. "I will study this more and return later. When Erik is older, it will be easier to see."

"To see what?"

"To see whether the child listens to it."

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

She was feeling off that day.

Here Christine had been so eager to convince Raoul that she was completely normal, and she was feeling a little weird. It'd begun at work during an afternoon shift. Head tingles - and a little stronger than usual. She could barely concentrate on her schoolwork.

She took a deep breath as she went to meet her boyfriend and mentally pulled herself together. Maybe school was making her a little more stressed, all those long syllabuses and assignments stretched out before her. A massive group project. But it would be okay. His calm smiled immediately reassured her of this.

She had seen Raoul quite a few times before he'd actually asked her out; there'd been something slightly familiar about him. He was usually with a group of his peers walking through the library, studying or working on a project. Raoul always had a smile on his face and looked like he was having a good time. Sometimes he was dressed in a nice shirt and tie, which made her guess that he was also employed. It was easy to tell that he had his life together. Yet he also didn't have that cocky edge that some guys she'd encountered on campus had, as though she owed them something. Her father hadn't been perfect, but he'd instilled some semblance of self-respect in her. She'd still been cautious when Raoul had first approached.

He was doing a marketing survey for a class. It was about pizza.

"I don't eat a lot of pizza. It makes me feel kind of sick." Bloated was the right word, but she wasn't about to share that with the cute blond guy who actually happened to be talking to her.

"Oh. Okay."

"What's the next one?" she'd asked, trying to take a peek at his piece of paper.

"Um. How often do you eat it? So I guess that's never for you." He marked something with his pen and glanced over his other questions. "Yeah. These will be pretty much all the same for you."

"Oh. Okay." They'd stood there for several awkward seconds.

"Um. I'm actually trying to think of an excuse to keep talking to you." She'd giggled at his honesty. "I see you around here."

"Yeah, I work here." _Duh, Christine._ She tried to glance at his papers again. "So do you really even have a project?"

"Yeah. I'm not that bad! It's a real live marketing plan." He held it up, and she could see the questions and notes. "Big pain."

"Well, here. I think my coworkers are bigger pizza eaters than I am. Let me give it to them."

"That would be great! Thanks."

"Sure. You could even leave a stack on the table."

"Thanks. And so yeah…I've got another question for you. But not for the project."

So he'd asked her out to dinner at a high-end Italian place. After a month, she realized why he'd seemed familiar. During a movie, Christine had suddenly exclaimed: "Sylvia's party!"

He'd turned and blinked at her in the dark theater. "Oh my God. Yes. I forgot all about that. But yeah. That is hilarious."

The lady in front of them turned and gave a loud: _"Sh!"_

When Christine was six, her father would sometimes do handyman jobs for wealthier people, roof repairs, caulking, and that sort of thing. Somehow, he'd gotten into a conversation with one of the rich women, and Christine had been invited to her daughter's birthday party. Christine knew her father had done it to help his quiet daughter find some playmates, but the entire experience had been awkward. She'd stood on the outside of a group of girls dressed in frilly dresses as they played with colorful ponies, brushing their neon manes and pretending to feed them. They all knew each other and gave Christine strange looks and whispered about why she was there at all. "Mommy said she had to come," was Sylvia's reply.

Yet she hadn't been the only awkward one. Sylvia's cousin had also been invited, and he appeared just as miserable as Christine was, especially as the other girls glanced at him and giggled. Eventually, he and Christine had run off together to play on the swings and sandbox in the giant backyard. At least until the group of girls, led by little Sylvia, had begun the chant: _"Christine and Raoul sitting in a tree!"_

"How is dear Sylvia?" Christine had asked once they made this discovery.

"She got really into animal rights. Last time I had dinner with her, I got a lecture on why ordering a steak was pretty much akin to murder. So yeah."

"Wow. I guess playing with those ponies had an effect on her."

The knowledge brought them together a little faster, and they'd now spent a happy year and a half together. Christine had felt bad over the fact that he'd chosen to go there for his MBA instead of a more prominent business school, but Raoul said he had multiple reasons for that decision. And that she was a good enough reason anyway, so 'please don't even worry about it.'

But asking Christine not to worry was sometimes like asking the Earth not to revolve around the sun.

She was reminded of this on their date that night at a cute Thai restaurant with glass tabletops and various plants hanging from the ceiling. Raoul was complaining about his father. His parents lived about three hours away, and he visited them once a month or so. "He wouldn't shut up last weekend." Raoul deepened his voice to mock him. "'You should have gone to Wharton. Your brother's already in the real estate market. Are you investing in anything? You kids have no work ethic. You expect everything to be handed to you!' And then he went on a long rant against the government. Jeez, Dad. Turn off the talk radio, right?"

She laughed. While she'd only met him a couple of times, Christine generally liked Raoul's father but was also intimidated by him. Nathan Chagny had been on the defense of his college football team and still looked the part with his blond buzz cut and broad shoulders. He was loud and usually friendly, telling stories about hunting for lions in Africa. But being his son was something different, she supposed.

"What does your mother do when he rants?" she asked.

"Pretends something important is going on in the kitchen. Or, 'That's wonderful, dear. I think I hear my phone.'"

"That's funny."

"Ugh," said Raoul. "If I'm like that when I'm old, slap me." He shook his head and took a bite of noodle soup. "So I've been hogging the whole conversation. How are you?"

"Good. I'm…good. Taking three classes."

"Great. Still psychology, right?"

"Um, no." She swallowed a piece of shrimp and shifted, kind of embarrassed over the fact that she kept switching majors. "That was last semester. Musical therapy now. The school just started offering it." And before psychology it had been music education. And before that—voice performance.

"Ah. Got you. Cool. Yeah, I bet that could be beneficial. Whenever I was feeling down, I would turn on some music."

"Yeah. I like it."

"Great, great. Work going well?"

"Yeah. Very well." A pause followed. She needed to learn to hold up her end of the conversations better. Raoul told her she was a wonderful listener, but Christine knew that trait would only get her so far. "We got some new books. Well, not _new_ books. New old books. Like really old ones that you can't get anywhere else."

"Very cool! Much more fun than anything at my job."

Her stomach clenched as they finished dinner. And she knew it wasn't the spicy food. She planned on telling him tonight, and the looming conversation was making her nervous.

She had two major worries. The first was that Raoul would freak out and break up with her, but she didn't actually think that would happen. The other one, the more plausible one, was that he would worry _too _much. Like her father had. Charley Daae had nearly become a helicopter parent—checking on her every few minutes when she was out with friends…calling the school to make sure she was okay. Finally, she'd sat him down and said, "Dad, I'm going to be fine. But only if you'll _let_ me be fine."

Her father had hugged her with tears in his blue eyes. "You're right, sweetheart. I just…that was the scariest thing. I thought I was losing you."

Christine missed him terribly now and regretted some of the times she'd pushed him away as all adolescents tended to do with their parents. His death three years ago had put a dangerous amount of stress on her shoulders.

"You look nervous," Raoul interrupted her thoughts with a chuckle. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Definitely. But-but there is something we need to talk about tonight."

"Uh-oh." His eyes widened, and he gripped the edges of the table, teasing her. "The sentence that no guy wants to hear ever."

"Um." She attempted a laugh, but it sounded more like a cough. "Exactly!"

He looked back and forth. "Okay. I found my escape exit. We're good." Raoul took her hand. "No, go ahead. What's up?"

"So it's actually about something that happened when I was a lot younger. Around fourteen."

"Okay." Raoul relaxed, maybe as he realized she wasn't angry at him over anything.

"So I got kind of sick."

"Oh?" He waited for her to continue, but she stared at the table. The cloth beneath the glass had pretty designs, white seabirds and waterfalls. "So like with the flu? Or something more serious?"

"More serious," she admitted, glancing up.

"Like what?"

"Well…." Ten seconds passed.

"Like err…cancer?"

"Yes." She felt horrified as soon as the lie left her lips. _What the heck is wrong with you?_

"Oh. Wow. That must have been really hard at that age. What kind?" There was nothing but gentle concern on Raoul's face.

She closed her eyes. "No. Sorry. Not that."

"What?"

"I didn't have cancer," she mumbled.

"Oh." He blinked several times. "So something else?"

Raoul probably thought she was completely nuts, which was going to do nothing for her case. Her cold hands were trembling. "I'm sorry. I can't do this right now. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I mean, I wish you'd tell me. Whatever it is, it'll be fine."

"Later. I promise I'll tell you later."

"Okay. Sounds good." She could feel him glance at her every so often as he paid the bill. They got up to go. "You look great today," he said, breaking the silence as they walked down the busy street. "I like your haircut."

"Thanks! Yeah, I thought it'd be neat to see what it looks like shorter. My dad always liked it long, but…I don't know. Doesn't this make me look more sophisticated?"

"Definitely." The tension eased.

Just for fun, they browsed through a nearby costume store and an antique store. She admired a china doll from the early 1900's with glossy white skin, brown hair, and a red and green Christmas-themed dress. Raoul offered to buy it for her, but she declined. After looking through a music store, they headed back toward his car. His campus car, as he called it, a blue Toyota. He had an expensive red sports car at his parents' house, but the rate of vehicle theft around campus was ridiculous. "So when does you lease end?" he casually asked as they climbed inside. The interior still had the new car smell.

"I guess about six months. Why?"

"Would you want to move in together? No pressure, but I thought I'd ask."

"Oh. Wow." She swallowed. "That's…Are you sure? I'm kind of messy sometimes."

"So am I. I have a housecleaner come by twice a month. No worries."

"So that's why your place always looks so nice! And here I thought you were Mr. Clean."

"The bald dude with the earring?" They laughed.

She hesitated and then asked, "Can I think about it?"

"Sure. Yeah. No hurry at all."

Their last stops were dessert from a bakery and a park with a lake. Ducks swam among the cattails, the babies from spring grown now. A turtle poked its head out of the murky water, and pigeons strutted about nearby, cooing every so often as they searched for stray bread crumbs. Sitting on a bench, she and Raoul were sharing a piece of chocolate pie from a Styrofoam container. She noticed that he was little quiet.

"Everything okay?" she finally asked.

"Yeah. Well, I guess I'm thinking about earlier. I can't help but be a little curious. Sorry." Seeing her expression, he added, "But you don't have to tell me now."

"I guess leaving you hanging was the worst thing to do. Of course you're curious. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. But people get sick sometimes. It wasn't your fault. If anyone thought any less of you over it, then they must have been a jerk."

"I pretty much try to keep it a secret," she replied.

"I understand. It's fine."

Now that she'd begun to tell him, his curiosity was only going to make things worse. The whole situation made her seem even less stable, like she had something to hide. Maybe she could tell him part of it for now. Maybe that would be enough. "All right. I'll tell you."

"Sorry. I didn't meant to push you. You don't have to."

"I want to." She took a deep breath. "Here's the thing. I got…mentally…sick." Christine set her fork in the container, no longer hungry.

"Oh." She nervously checked his expression. He didn't seem too concerned—yet. "Like depression? My mom had that several years back."

"No. This is going to sound really, really bad. But—"

"Go ahead, Christine. It's fine. What happened?" He was staring at her so intently that she knew there was no going back now.

"When I was about fourteen, I started hearing…voices." She cringed as she admitted it. "In my head."

"_Voices?_ Wow. Like you're talking about…disembodied voices?" She nodded. Finally, a touch of caution entered Raoul's blue eyes. "What kind of voices?"

"Different types of voices. Right before I went to sleep or during the middle of the night. I'd wake up hearing them and get really upset. Crying or screaming. Then my dad would come running into my room. And it was just a giant mess."

"That's…really—I mean, that must have been really upsetting." He paused. "What did they say to you?"

"Oh, gosh." She'd tried to block that from her mind. "Things that didn't make much sense. Gibberish. Some were angry and some—I don't know. It didn't even sound like they were speaking directly to me. I can't explain it exactly. I barely remember now."

"Oh. Wow. So were you kind of um…." Poor Raoul was searching for the nicest way to say it.

"Schizophrenic?" she asked with a shrug. "That's what everyone thought at first. The first signs of that. But—well, we finally moved to a different apartment so that my father could be closer while I got inpatient treatment. The second we left, I was suddenly fine. The voices were gone."

"What do they think happened to you?"

"They used a lot of fancy words. But basically like temporary insanity, I guess. A nervous breakdown. No one ever knew exactly."

"Well, you know, maybe that was it," said Raoul, slowly taking her hand. "Weird stuff happens, right? Something in the water at the old apartment? You never know what's in the environment these days."

"Yeah, right." She softly laughed and then dared to meet his eyes, feeling far more vulnerable than she wanted. "So you don't think I'm a freak of nature?"

"No, of course not," he said with a sideways grin. "I mean, if you have any more problems, just make sure to say something. So we can fix it together."

"It _won't_ happen again. That was a long time ago, and I'm definitely fine now."

"Right." He squeezed her hand. It looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but thankfully Raoul stopped himself. She knew he would need time for it to settle in, and that was fine. "Well, thanks for telling me, Christine. I'm really glad you did." He leaned in and gave her a hug from the side. "I love you."

She smiled into his shoulder, relieved. Meg had been right. He didn't see her as the crazy girl. "I love you, too! And I promise I'm fine." A pigeon strutted right at their feet, and they laughed as it pecked at a breadcrumb that was dangerously close to Raoul's sneaker. They shared a gentle kiss as the sun set.

"Your hands are a little cold," he said when they pulled back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, they've been like that since this afternoon. And it's still summer. Go figure."

He rubbed her hands with his to warm them up.

And the head tingles from earlier finally disappeared.


	5. Chapter 5

**All righty. Here is the final flashback. And the very beginning of what you're waiting for :) Thank you for all the lovely reviews!**

_1975_

"Do you think everything that priest said was right? About possessions and bargains and all that? Two years ago, I would have called him crazy. But now-"

The Reverend stood beside her beneath the catalpa tree and glanced at the child. Little Erik sat nearby on a patch of brown grass, wearing an oversized black coat and the mask. The baby laughed whenever the wind would blow up against him and ruffle the fuzzy hair on his pale head.

"I don't know," Reverend Mansart finally replied. "He stopped by my house and said I should keep an eye on you. He said this situation was very unsafe and that he'd considered taking the baby with him to Europe. Can you believe that?"

"What? Why?"

The Reverend leaned in toward Irene with a grim expression, as though he were afraid that someone or something might be listening. "Look. I don't know what to believe about all this. So don't-"

"Just say it. We are far, far beyond pretending this is all normal."

The Reverend nodded. "He told me this was the most dangerous situation he'd ever encountered. He said it might be safest to put the child in isolation just to protect everyone else. A cell of some kind. Like a prison or a hospital."

Irene placed a hand over her mouth. "But that's not legal!"

"There are countries that turn blinder eyes. But, Irene, I'm not saying that's the solution to this. Do you want me try to find someone else?" he asked. "There's this fascinating Buddhist monk who—"

"No," she interrupted. "No. People keep coming into my home and not one of them can help. Maybe that old priest was right about one thing. Maybe little Erik is the only one who can help himself."

"That's putting an awful lot of faith into a child."

"I don't have anything left to put faith into," Irene whispered through gritted teeth. "In the past year, I have learned that demons—_demons!_ - are real. Half the time, I expect to wake up to Maddy poking me in the arm and asking me to make pancakes…finding out this was all a bad dream." She stared down at her aging brown leather shoes. "I wish I had a pair of ruby slippers to tap."

"I feel the same as you," the Reverend softly replied. "I've always believed in darker forces, of course, but nothing this-this literal, I guess." He paused and glanced at little Erik again, his hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. "Long ago, I met a man who said he'd interacted with things from the beyond. This kind of situation. He said that it made his faith stronger. He said to me, 'If the darker side exists, then the lighter side must as well. But only the darker side feels that it must prove itself to us.' Useful words in these times, eh?"

Irene rubbed her temples. "If you ever meet the lighter side, tell it to come help me, will you? Tell the lighter side that we've done nothing to deserve this."

"I do every day, Irene. In every prayer. Hang onto your faith."

"I try." Irene stared up at the bare branches of her catalpa tree, recalling the days when she and Maddy would have tea parties and picnics beneath it.

Yet, even then, they had known that something accompanied them during every hour.

The thing stayed fairly quiet over the next year, especially as fewer visitors came to the home. There were even weeks when Irene hopefully wondered if _it _had left altogether - until a door would slam shut or a cabinet drawer would open or the pages in her book would rapidly turn. Whether the thing had weakened or was simply biding its time, Irene didn't know.

Erik began to talk. Irene became "Auntie" again. He picked up other words very quickly, faster than any other child she'd encountered. _Ball. Sun. Tree. Mad. Sad. Wind. _Like his cry, his voice was entirely too pleasant. If she had been unable to see him, Irene would have pictured Erik as having cherub-like features.

One day, he became extremely frustrated by something. And this led to the first chilling revelation of many. "Mad," Erik said as they sat on the sofa. Irene was mending one of her skirts, and Erik was supposed to be occupied with a picture book about the zoo.

She glanced at him. "You're mad?"

"No." His poor face curled up into a frown. "_Mad!_"

"Why are you mad, Erik?" she asked with a sigh. "Tired? Hungry?"

"No! I not mad."

Every open door in the house slammed shut at the exact same time. They both jumped as the crash echoed and the home shook on its foundation. As Irene placed a hand to her pounding heart, she understood. She shivered at the implications. Erik had been trying to tell her that the thing was angry. But he had not known what to call _it_.

"Oh," she whispered. "The thing was mad. The thing."

"Thing," Erik repeated as though relieved to have a noun.

Irene slowly set her sewing on the cushion and turned toward him. "Erik? Can—can you see the thing?"

"No," he said, his attention back on his book.

"Can you hear it?"

"No."

"Then how did you know it was angry?" she desperately asked.

"Doors."

"No. You knew it was angry before it shut the doors, didn't you?"

Erik nodded but would say nothing else. Irene could only assume that he felt _it_ at another level. Now that she knew Erik was aware of his dark companion, Irene began to watch him more closely. There were days when she couldn't tell whether he was babbling to himself or to the thing.

And then Irene made a grave mistake. The last years had caused her to be constantly tired and frustrated - and downright crazy at points. She didn't always have the patience for dealing with certain situations. Deep in her heart, Irene knew that she had treated Madeleine with far more warmth and affection. But Erik made her feel so trapped at times.

He was nearly two and sitting on the tiles of the kitchen. Irene was shuffling through some paperwork regarding the property taxes on her home. She hoped it wasn't becoming too expensive to live there as she had no idea where they would go. Some awful little apartment? _Yes, I see you allow dogs and cats. But what's your policy concerning dark forces from the underworld? _Sometimes humor was the only thing that got her through the long, terrifying days.

Heavily involved in reading fine print, Irene didn't notice Erik for about five minutes. When she looked away from the documents to give her eyes a rest, she nearly fell over.

Erik was rolling a green rubber ball, about the size of a softball, toward an empty space in the middle of the kitchen. The ball would stop all by itself, as though running into an invisible wall, and then roll back to him. On and on went this eerie game.

"Erik, no!" Irene hollered once she'd recovered from her shock. "Stop! Don't play with it! What's wrong with you?!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him from the kitchen, giving him a quick swat on the upper leg. "_Bad!_" Erik burst into tears.

She immediately realized that she was too harsh, that there was no way for him to understand what he'd done wrong. How was a toddler supposed to ever deal with something like this? Later that night, after she'd put him to bed, Irene wept with guilt because she felt so very unable to love the child. Yes, she felt sorry for him. But with that face and the fact that the thing lingered there only because of Erik—her negative feelings toward the boy were sometimes overwhelming.

_It _learned to prey off this. Whenever she would get angry at Erik, he began to go to _it_ for comfort.

He had just turned three. Stepping outside, Irene yelled at him for trampling over her flower garden while chasing after his soccer ball. "You crushed my petunias!" she exclaimed, approaching him with a dish towel in hand. "I told you not to go over there. Stay in the middle of the yard! Why are you always so disobedient?!"

"You're mean!" he shouted back at her, his hands curling into fists. Yellow eyes glared at her behind the cloth mask. "The thing isn't mean to me like you! It's nice!"

"It's not nice!" she snapped. "It's bad. It wants to hurt all of us! Don't you dare talk to it!"

"I can if I want! It's my friend! But you're not!" Still scowling at her, Erik ran back into the house, slamming the door behind him. Irene could practically feel the thing grinning victoriously at her; she imagined it had sharp white teeth and evil orange eyes.

Irene tried to be kinder to Erik over the next months, both out of fear and the knowledge that she was taking misguided anger out on her great-nephew. She softened her voice when she scolded Erik, refrained from hitting him, and tried to play mores games. He liked hide-and-seek, but that activity was far too terrifying under the circumstances. There were always three players. They played board games instead; sometimes the pieces would move on their own. Sometimes one just had to pretend that these things weren't really happening.

Despite her best efforts, though, the damage had been done. Erik became much more secretive as he aged, staying in his room for hours or speaking in a whisper to empty space. He refused to give her any information about the thing, only sometimes saying, "It won't hurt you, Auntie. It's my friend."

"It's not your friend!" she would snap, grabbing his shoulder and making him look her in the eye. "It's evil! And the best thing you can do for yourself is to completely ignore it!"

"Stop saying those things," he replied, backing away from her. "You make it mad when you say that. It's my only friend."

That was actually true. As she never took him off the property, Erik really had no other friends. Irene had no idea what she would do when it was time for Erik to go to school. Teach him at home? What about when he turned eighteen and was supposed to enter the real world? What then?

"What about Reverend Mansart?" she frantically asked. "He comes over to see you every week? Isn't he your friend?"

Erik frowned. "He's like _you._ And I am not like anyone…."

It was only a month later when Irene truly began to understand the extent of what she was up against. The power that the thing had over Erik became all too apparent.

It was November of 1979. While running around outside after breakfast, Erik had fallen on the concrete and bloodied up his knee. Irene had washed the wound with disinfectant, but the injury was still hurting him the next day. Erik would rub and scratch at the mangled skin even as Irene told him to leave the sore alone.

She was watching the news in the living room, already wrapping her hand tensely up against her collar as she wondered about the fate of the hostages in Iran. For no logical reason, she nearly felt like the events that happened in her home that day were interconnected with what was happening thousands of miles away. As though the thing was watching all of it - plotting and planning and manipulating.

An explosion of glass shattering rang throughout the home. Tossing the novel aside, she jumped up and ran into the kitchen, ignoring the flickering lights. Erik was standing beside a pile of glass fragments and crumbled chocolate chip cookies—cookies she had baked earlier that day for dessert.

"Erik! Why did you do that?" She forgot to control her temper. "My mother gave me that plate over thirty years ago! Why did you do that?!" She grabbed his arm and made him look at her. "What were you thinking? Why didn't you just ask for a damned cookie!?"

"_It_ said to," he quickly explained with wide, frightened eyes. "It said to. Because…because - S_ee?!_" He pointed down to his leg with excitement. "See, Auntie? My leg is better now!"

Irene watched with horror as the wound on his leg healed all by itself within seconds. The red and blue faded, and the broken skin sewed itself back together.

"Now the pain is gone. And—" Erik reached down and picked up one of the unbroken cookies from the floor. "Some of them are still okay, Auntie. See? The cookies are okay. Everything's okay now!"

She didn't punish him. Irene only slumped down to the kitchen floor and buried her face into her hands. Now she understood the elderly priest's warnings. The thing was quickly learning to manipulate Erik, easily rewarding him for bad deeds.

"Auntie?" he asked, still standing beside her and holding up the cookie. "See?"

"Erik. You can't listen to it," she whispered, looking into those two confused yellow eyes. "No matter what it promises you, ignore it! Why can't you understand that?"

"Why?" he asked. "It's my friend."

"Because it wants you to do bad things."

"But the cookies are okay!" Erik protested.

But, in her mind's eye, Irene could see crumbled cookies and a smashed plate turning into much more horrible activities as time passed. She could see the thing bribing Erik into doing anything. Extreme vandalism. Theft. Violence or even murder. Growing increasingly desperate, she called Reverend Mansart and told him what had happened.

"I'll talk to him," said the Reverend. "But, Irene, maybe this is turning out to be more than you can handle. Maybe I should call for more help. Maybe…maybe Erik should be kept in a safer place."

"Let's just try a little while longer," she whispered, her hand wrapping anxiously into the rubbery phone cord. "Maybe he'll listen to you. Please."

The following day, the Reverend visited Erik in his bedroom while Irene paced outside. She could hear murmuring and the occasional protest from the child. And then she could hear little Erik start to cry. Twenty minutes later, Reverend Mansart emerged, his eyes tired and his steps heavy.

"What'd you tell him?" she softly asked.

"A child's version of the battle between good and evil," he replied with a shrug. "Right and wrong. Heaven and hell. And how the thing that influences him is wrong. And to listen to you because you're good and right."

"I don't feel so good and right these days." Irene sighed. "Anything else?"

The Reverend hesitated and rubbed the back of his head. "I told him he might have to go away if he didn't listen to you. He got kind of upset."

"Well, maybe it will help," Irene murmured. "Maybe that's what he needed to hear."

"If things get out of hand, call me," he stated. "I don't trust this to get better on its own." He stopped in the doorway before leaving. "But another thing you might try is focusing his attention on something else. Like drawing. Or maybe a musical instrument. You have that dusty piano in the corner. Couldn't hurt."

The second Reverend Mansart left and closed the door behind him, Erik came running out with his mask on. "Auntie, I'll be good now!" he said in a tear-choked voice. "I won't listen to the thing anymore! Okay? Okay, Auntie? Don't make me go away!"

"Okay," she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her legs, already tall for his age, and she stiffly patted his head. Over the next couple of days, she almost dared to believe that everything might be okay. He didn't talk to the thing or interact with it. Erik stayed at her side with his books and his games, glancing at Irene every so often as though he wanted reassurance. She would give him pats on the leg and murmur, "Very good, Erik. You're doing very good."

With only a few lessons, he took to the piano faster than anyone she'd seen in her lifetime. A literal prodigy as far as she could tell. Anything she played, he could repeat. And then he'd add to it or embellish it. When she stepped out of the room, he continued to play, nearly obsessed with the instrument. Erik and music ignited a spark of hope in her tired heart.

Yet it was all very short-lived.

A week later, in the early morning hours, Irene awoke to Erik standing at her bedside. His entire body was covered in a burning red rash. All day, he twisted on his bed in agony, futilely attempting to find a more comfortable position against the cool sheets. Irene rubbed a variety of creams and gels on his inflamed skin, but nothing seemed to work. As his moans of pain sounded out from the bedroom, she was standing by the telephone and trying to decide whether to call for the Reverend or a doctor. And wondering if it would even matter either way.

Irene squeezed her eyes shut when she heard something shatter behind her. Even before she turned around, she knew what had happened. And why it had happened. Erik was standing next to a broken vase of flowers, the water dripping off the table and onto the carpet. "I tried," he said through his tears. "I tried, Auntie. But it hurt _so_ much."

The rash faded away before their eyes as the punishment was lifted. The lights flickered in victory. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Again, Irene didn't punish him. She didn't comfort him either. This was far beyond her. Beyond Erik. Beyond anyone. "Erik, go to your room," she whispered.

"But—"

"Go to you room!"

Irene collapsed into an armchair and cried for several minutes. She watched as blue and purple flower petals fell onto the floor like colorful teardrops. The broken glass glistened. Slowly standing, she walked to the phone and picked it up. She half-expected there to be no tone. There was. With a shaking hand, she dialed the Reverend.

"Hello?" His voice was calming. She couldn't get her mouth to work. "Hello? Anyone there?"

"Reverend," she whispered.

"Irene? Is that you? What's wrong?"

"I-I can't do it anymore," she said. "I can't win by myself. I can't fight it. And once he gets older and stronger—God help me."

"I know," he replied in a gentle voice. "I'll get you help. It's not safe for you any longer."

She hung up. Even though Irene said nothing to Erik when she visited him at bedtime, he immediately knew he was going away. The little boy begged and pleaded with her to stay.

"It's not your fault," she said. "But you need more help than I can give you. You'll go to people who can help you fight it." _Who will let you suffer with it…. _Maybe the priests would immobilize Erik so that he couldn't obey _it_ no matter what _it _did to him. _Tortura._ What else could anyone do? It was too horrible for words.

"I don't want to go! Please don't make me! I'll be good!"

"I'm sorry," she said with a sob. "I can't help you." She tried to touch his bony shoulder, but Erik backed away from her. "There's nothing I can—"

"Get out of my room!" he screamed at her.

"Erik-"

_"Get out!"_

Irene walked back into the the living room as Erik slammed the door behind her. She sat in the chair and stared forward, trapped within her own decision. She sat there for hours trying to determine her path. Until—

All the lights in the house snapped off at once. Irene glared upwards. "What are you doing?" she asked _it._ "You've won, haven't you? You vile, disgusting, awful devil thing. What do you want now?"

Silence greeted her. With a sigh of defeat, Irene rose to light some candles. She left one burning in the living room and brought one into her bedroom so that she could see enough to change into her nightgown.

A terrible mistake.

The door to her room slammed shut. Irene jumped. The candle blew out with a whoosh, and she was left in complete darkness. With a cry, Irene ran to her door and rattled the knob. It didn't budge. She forced her shoulder against it to no avail. She heard another door squeak open outside. Her heart jumped. "Erik?" she softly asked. "Erik, are you out there?"

No response.

Irene pounded on her door. "Let me out!" she cried. "Erik! Are you out there?" Minutes passed, and she continued to call for him and push against the door.

The scent of smoke suddenly filled her nostrils. "No," she whispered, remembering the other candle. _"No, no, no!"_ Again, Irene threw herself at the wood. "Help me!" she cried as the smell grew stronger. She coughed and gasped. Her eyes watered, and her nose burned and tingled. "Please let me out!"

"Auntie?" Her great-nephew's voice came from right outside the door.

"Erik?" She didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. "Erik, what happened? Can you let me out?"

"I'm sorry, Auntie. I knocked over the candle. And now there's fire everywhere. I'm sorry." His voice was nothing but apologetic.

"Did the thing tell you to knock over the candle?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Yes. It said you wouldn't make me go if I did that."

"Oh, Erik…."

"Auntie, we should go outside now. There's fire and smoke out here."

She coughed and said, "I can't, Erik. I-_It_ won't open my door!"

"Oh…." And then Erik began to speak to _it._ "Let her out," he said. "Let her out of the room. There's fire, and she needs to go outside now."

Silence followed. Gasping, Irene sunk down to her knees where the smoke wasn't as thick. She continued to pound her fists against the door, wondering if these were going to be her last moments.

"Auntie?" Erik's voice was soft and weak.

"Yes?" she whispered, pressing her cheek against the smooth, cool wood.

"It'll let you out if I go now. I have to go with_ it_. I have to go away. And then everyone will be okay. Okay?"

"Erik…."

"Goodbye, Auntie. I have to go now. I have to go with it so it'll let you out. Goodbye."

"_Erik!"_ She desperately rattled the door. "Erik?" There was silence now. "No!" She twisted the knob, and the door suddenly gave way. Crawling on her hands and knees, Irene made her way to the front door. The fire had engulfed her living room, turning her furniture to blackened rubble, and was rapidly approaching her kitchen. Clouds of smoke covered every room. Eyes watery and throat burning, she frantically crawled toward the exit. A pair of strong hands grabbed her beneath the arms and yanked her forward. The cool night air felt like heaven on her perspiring flesh, and she breathed it in and continued to cough. Someone dragged her forward and away from the burning home. Collapsing against the rough grass, Irene finally glanced up and saw the Reverend.

His eyes instantly spoke to her: _We were too late, weren't we?_

As Irene faded into unconsciousness, she could hear the faint sound of approaching sirens.

_Goodbye, Auntie. Goodbye..._

When she awoke at the hospital hours later, Reverend Mansart was sitting at her bedside. "I called Madeleine," he first told her. "She's flying out here as soon as she can."

"Did you see Erik?" she weakly asked him.

"No. I looked nearby. But no sign of him. I don't think he was in the house."

"What should we do?"

"I alerted the priest. If someone finds him, I'm sure they'll call the police. I'll keep looking with some of the church members.

"No one will find him," Irene whispered, her cheek falling against the cool pillow. "He's gone now. I think he's gone forever, and no one will ever find him."

"Then it's in God's hands," he replied. "That's where it's always been."

Only the catalpa tree still stood.

Her house and belongings were gone. All evidence from the past—_gone._

Irene had nothing left except-

Madeleine welcomed her with open arms, and they eventually moved down to Florida together. There were no disturbances - no doors slamming…or pages turning…or cabinet drawers opening and closing. There was only peace and normalcy and sunshine and rain. And the occasional hurricane.

After finishing school, Maddy became a legal secretary and fell in love with a bright attorney who quickly did well for himself. They married in 1983 and moved into a three story brick home with a swimming pool, balconies, and a fireplace in the master bedroom. Irene lived in a nearby townhome with beautiful new oak furniture and was always welcome to visit her niece. They soon gathered a wide circle of friends in their community. In the decades that followed, it seemed like there was always a wedding or a work party or a retirement party or a baby shower to go to. She would meet with other women at sewing clubs and book clubs.

Keeping busy _helped._

Surrounding herself with people helped. Irene practically forced herself to become an extrovert after spending so many years in near solitude.

Maddy never had children. She told her husband that she was physically unable. Irene never knew whether that was true; she didn't ask.

They never spoke of what had happened.

Until a sunny June day in 2002 when Irene felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. She had been sitting on the beach and reading with Maddy; it was one of their favorite activities to do together as they both grew older. She collapsed onto the soft sand and stared up at the blue sky, the crashing waves echoing in her ears.

As she slouched there with Maddy clutching her hand while they waited for an ambulance, Irene softly asked, "What do you think ever happened to him?"

"I don't know, Auntie…." Maddy choked. "Please hang on. They'll be here soon. I knew we should have taken you to the doctor yesterday!"

"If you ever see him, will you tell him I'm sorry?"

"Why are you saying this now? I'll never see him—"

"_If."_

"Yes," Maddy murmured as tears streamed down her cheeks. "If I do, I'll tell him."

"Thank you." She smiled. "I love you, dear."

"Oh, Auntie. I love you, too. And I'm sorry, too…."

Irene's eyes closed, and she slipped away into warmth.

* * *

><p><em>2014<em>

_It wasn't the right one!_

None of them were, and he was furious. He had traced the damned thing all the way from some moldy hole in Europe to this foul college town in the United States. He had been so certain! And now…_nothing._

What was he going to have to do? Search the entire building? It should have been with the rest! Yes, he was very certain of this.

Had _it_ somehow manipulated the situation?

He glared into empty space. That was always a possibility, although he could not see how. Frankly, the thing should have been weakening. Of course, _it_ still had enough power to tear him apart.

Along with the mask, he wore a full black cloak with a hood to cover the sores on his neck and the back of his nearly hairless head. Thanks to the costume racks of the Department of Theatre, no part of his hideous body was left uncovered. The abscesses on the bottom of his feet hurt as he walked.

He tiredly slammed the book closed and pushed it aside on the table. _Useless._

To his annoyance, he suddenly sensed that someone was standing right outside the room. Another useless student wanting to study, most likely. Time to leave. He could have scared them away, or made them disappear for that matter, but he was not finished with this place and wanted to leave as little evidence as possible of his comings and goings.

To keep himself concealed in the reading room, he had not turned on the light. His night vision was excellent, and the rectangular glass window on the door had allowed in enough light from the main room. Standing to the side, he glanced through the small window. A blonde girl with seashell earrings was on the other side of the door.

Just _standing_ there with a concerned frown. And making no attempt to come inside. He prepared to hide himself behind the door and then dash out if she entered. Even with his blistered feet, speed and camouflage were easily on his side. But she did not come in. She only stared at the damned door for nearly a minute. One of her index fingers finally reached out and touched the wood. And then dropped again. She tilted her head.

What was she? _Drunk? _It figured. Maybe she would fall over soon and spare him this irritation.

With disgust, he waited until she finally backed away from the door and turned around. She continued to glance back at it until she turned a corner and disappeared.

He forgot her and returned to his increasingly futile search.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to all who left feedback. Regarding Erik's sad physical state and smell and even voice—it will play into the plot. He's supposed to be mostly pitiable right now. And that's all I'm going to give away ;)

**Enjoy!**

Christine had felt wonderful after her conversation with Raoul as that burden was lifted from her shoulders. Before dropping her off at her apartment, he had again reassured her that the past didn't matter. Standing outside her door, she'd even felt at ease enough to make a joke about the whole thing.

"Thank you for not thinking I'm too crazy to date," she said, kissing him. "And—" Christine gestured to the empty space on her right. "Bob thanks you, too."

Raoul playfully glared. "Tell _Bob_ to stay away from my girlfriend."

"I guess you both have a thing for nutty girls."

"You are not nutty." He gave her a final peck on the lips. "I'll see you this weekend. We're gonna win."

"I can't believe you're making me play doubles with them after what happened last time."

"Heh. They thought it was funny. Only the net was a little traumatized."

"Ugh." She shook her head and teasingly shooed him away. "Have a good night."

"You, too, beautiful. I love you."

"Love you, too."

She sighed happily as she closed the door and turned around to stare at her empty one-bedroom apartment with its tiny kitchen and living space. The smell of burnt popcorn from the previous evening lingered in the air, a testament to all her cooking skills. A worn out grey sofa sat in front of a twenty inch television that she rarely used except for the occasional old romance movie. She'd watched a lot more of them before finding a boyfriend. Two wooden chairs were situated around a circular kitchen table that was barely bigger than a nightstand. She had a few basic kitchen appliances that were also rarely used, a toaster and a waffle iron.

Maybe it would be nice to live with someone again. She'd long ago become tired of dorm mates and roommates leaving dirty clothes and stale food everywhere and making too much noise and coming home drunk. She remembered her female roommate from the second year of college nearly falling on top of her and saying, "Oh, Christine. You always smell so nice. Like flowers. Can I borrow your perfume so that I can smell nice, too?" After all that, living alone seemed like a good idea, even though Christine could just barely afford it.

But living with Raoul might be great. He definitely wasn't a partier, and his drinking consisted of the occasional beer or glass of wine. They could snuggle up every night for dinner and movies, and she'd be willing to throw in some action flicks for his sake. And, if they were going to get married, then it made sense. Maybe she'd be a little less lonely….

And maybe he'd help her go through the three boxes of her father's things that still sat untouched in the corner of the tiny hallway, right beside the bathroom. She glanced at them as she passed by to get ready for bed. If only the ghosts of the past would evaporate. Her mother's absence. Her craziness. And especially her father dying. It all seemed so sad at times that she couldn't even bring herself to go through the stupid boxes.

The following day, she awoke feeling fairly optimistic, Raoul's reaction still happily lingering in her mind. Christine put on her favorite pair of earrings, blue fan-shaped seashells, and pulled her short hair into a pony tail. She went to her music theory class, which always proved to be challenging. She was expected to do some composing that semester, and it really wasn't her strongest point. Reading and singing music came much more easily to her that writing it.

She had lunch again with Meg at a cheap sandwich shop where the bread was always too dry. Flags, signs, and other decorations with the university's team logo covered the walls.

"Did you tell him?" Meg asked once they'd settled in.

"Yes. Part of it."

"And?"

"He took it well, I think."

"I knew he would!" Her friend grinned. "It happened so long ago. If anyone judges you, then they're an idiot."

She laughed at Meg's bluntness. Christine took a drink of diet soda to relieve her parched mouth. "Yeah, I don't know why I was so nervous about it. Thinking he would break up with me over that? And here I thought that therapist was wrong when she said I might end up having abandonment issues. Haha."

"Why would you have those?" Meg asked. "Because your dad died?"

"That. And because my mom left."

"But weren't you like three at the time?"

"Yeah. I don't remember anything about her. Except—" Christine thought back and saw red, orange, and yellow. "Leaves."

"Leaves?"

"Yeah." Christine nibbled on her bottom lip. "That's it. I have this memory of her raking leaves in the backyard and me playing in them. She was going to put them into this orange plastic bag that had a pumpkin face. It must have been around Halloween."

"I remember having those bags!"

"Yeah. It's a good memory. I remember her being nice to me, smiling."

"But you're father never told you why she left, right?"

"He just said she was very unhappy." Christine could still see the pained look in his blue eyes and remembered the way he would quickly leave the room whenever her name, Jocelyn, came up. "He wouldn't talk about her much otherwise."

"Well, I can see why! To never write or call you, even on your birthday. To leave your life without a trace." Meg shook her head and frowned. "I don't know. I couldn't imagine doing that to my kid, if I had one."

Christine shrugged. "Well, I don't think about it much. I don't remember her enough to be angry or upset about it. My dad was good to me. He's the one I miss."

"Did you ever search for her just out of curiosity?"

Christine half-smiled. "Yeah…. I've typed her name into Google and Facebook. Nothing. But she could have changed her name."

"Hmm."

They went back to their food, salty slices of lunchmeats on flaky bread. A group of loud boys grabbed the booth behind them, talking about the wild party they were going to that weekend. Christine had been to a handful of parties during her time in college, usually with Meg or a more distant friend. She'd gotten tipsy now and then, enough to fall asleep on Meg's shoulder one New Year's, but that was the extent of her wild college days.

"So what did you not tell him?" Meg asked.

"Huh?"

"You said you told Raoul part of it."

"Oh. Yeah. I just told him about the voices. I didn't tell him about completely zoning out sometimes. Sleeping walking. The shadows on the walls. And the time it felt like the sheet was wrapping around my ankle." That had been the worst; she still wasn't sure if it had been a dream or something weirder.

"I think that's good enough," said Meg. "I never give all my secrets away either." She smiled mischievously. "Keeps us gals mysterious, right?"

"Right," Christine replied with a tired smile. "We have to stay mysterious."

The rest of her day went well enough. She was looking forward to work, an evening shift. It would be quieter, so she could use part of the time to look over her homework. Supervisors were pretty lenient about that at the university.

"Hi, Joe!" She greeted the middle-aged security guard at his desk that night.

"Hello, kiddo!" He smiled behind his beard. "You bring coffee tonight?"

"Nope, I'm afraid not."

"Then what good am I going to be?" he asked, teasing her. "I'll fall asleep."

She laughed. He'd actually done that a couple of time, but she never told anyone. In fact, Christine wouldn't have felt comfortable working that shift without Joe there. He was a burly guy, and she didn't think anyone would want to mess with him, asleep or not.

As Christine arrived at the circulation desk, Alexis was packing up from her shift. "Hey, Christine." The curvy third year English major was Christine's nearly physical opposite, often clad in all black dresses and tops. Her nose was pierced with a gold hoop, and her short hair was also dyed a deep black. Alexis was dating a beefy guy with a goatee, Bill, who rode a motorcycle and always wanted to use the bathroom when he came in. Christine didn't want to know why.

"Hi there!"

"Did you go online and sign that petition I told you about?"

"Oh, no. I'll do that tonight."

"Yeah," said Alexis. "It's really important to stop that development. I mean, all the mountains are going to be covered in houses soon. And the wildlife is getting completely screwed over, right?"

"Right. Yeah. I'll sign it," Christine assured her.

"Great. Hey, did you see the old collection that just came in? I helped Regina unpack it. It was pretty cool."

"Um, she mentioned something about it. I'll definitely have to check it out later," said Christine. In her spare time, she did enjoying browsing through the special collection of books from the 1800's or earlier. Many of the valuable ones were protected beneath glass cases, so that part of the library was like a museum.

"Great. Well, see ya, Christine D."

"Bye, Alexis M.," she replied with a smirk.

The evening began somewhat busy as she assisted several students with book searches. A girl from another desk was having computer problems, and so Christine tried to help with that before finally advising her to call IT. Finally, it quieted. Joe yawned at his desk as he read a newspaper. She headed off toward the main section to do some re-shelving.

The main room held a large portion of the nonfiction collection and was up a short flight of carpeted stairs. On all sides of the bigger area were smaller reading rooms for quieter studying. They were kept dark unless in use, part of the university's energy saving policy. As she passed, one of the doors squeaked open. A boy with shaggy blond hair walked out, looking as though he'd been desperately trying to cram for something. "I need a drink," he said as he sauntered past her. She laughed and went back to shelving. And then-

_Head tingles._

They came upon her so furiously that she stumbled and dropped a book. The thud echoed in the silence. Bending over to pick it up, Christine took a deep breath and tried to ignore them. _Come on. Go away. _She walked forward with the books securely tucked under her arm. They became more intense. She paused and then curiously sauntered backward until she ran into a table edge. Less intense.

Christine took a couple steps forward, and they again became stronger. It was like that game she'd played when she was a kid. Hot and cold. Finally, she was standing in front of a closed door; most of the other doors of the unused rooms were slightly ajar. No light came from beneath this one. One glance at the little window told her that it was definitely dark inside.

And yet she knew someone was in there….

But how did she know? She didn't hear or see anything. _So you don't _know,_ Christine. That would be crazy._

After several moments of staring at the door, she touched the wood with the tip of her index finger.

_I don't need to open it to know no one is in there. I am not crazy._

The bells in her head chimed.

She stood there and continued to stare, too frightened to open it. Finally, she forced herself to back away from the door and head downstairs. As Christine cast a few backward glances, the chimes quieted. For the rest of the evening, she was on edge. She stayed at her desk and didn't go back upstairs. When it was time to leave, Christine walked quickly beneath the streetlights to her campus bus, grateful to finally get home that night. And then she chastised herself for being that way.

_You're frightened of a door, Christine? A door? Wow, that's a whole new level of pathetic._

Her sleep was uneasy. She wished Raoul were with her that night. His warm embrace would have felt divine. But she knew he was really busy with a massive group project.

Thankfully, the following day was shaping up to be her favorite day of the week. She had her one-on-one voice lesson. Next semester, she'd actually be required to begin applying music therapy at a setting of her choice. She thought the nearby children's hospital would be a good low-pressure place to begin. Her other options were a nursing home and a rehabilitation facility. There was also a psychiatric institution, but that would bring back way too many horrible memories.

"Hello, Christine," greeted her voice instructor, Ian Martinez, in his deep and pleasant voice. He had sung in both theater shows and operas, and she felt privileged to still be working with him even though she was no longer a performance major. He had signed a special permission form so that she could register. "Having a good week?"

"I'm…surviving," she said with a laugh.

"Sometimes that's the best you can ask for. What's your major now? I always forget. Nuclear physics?"

"Very funny. It's musical therapy."

"Well, great! I'm glad you're back to music!"

"I am happy to be back," she admitted. "I missed it."

"I think I can get you a recital this year. It's not required, but I thought you'd enjoy it."

She hesitated. "Yeah, maybe. It's a lot of pressure. But—"

"But you deserve it, Christine. Don't be so down on yourself. You're very talented. One of the better students I've had in a while." She blushed.

Ian introduced her to a new piece from _Don Giovanni_, one of Zerlina's arias, and then they began warming up her voice. She enjoyed those times, singing in the privacy of the room without an audience to judge her. Maybe she'd never be a famous performer, but she wanted to make sure that singing was always a major part of her life. And maybe she could even help people with her talent. Christine felt pride as she left that day, finally good at something again. Her self-esteem was sometimes like a yoyo.

And then the evening shift arrived. She set a medium cup of coffee on Joe's desk, Starbucks at that, hoping it would improve her karma. "Now you can't complain," she said.

"Nope. I'll actually do my job tonight! Thanks, Christine." They laughed together.

Gathering her nerves, she headed upstairs to shelve books again. Christine nearly groaned as her head began to tingle once more. _Come on. Give me a break._

She slowly approached the door that she had the previous night. Nothing happened, and the chimes in her mind didn't change. Christine opened the door with a deep breath and turned on the light, tired of being frightened by nothingness. No one was there. _There. You see how ridiculous you're being?_

She turned off the light and closed the door halfway. But, this time, the mind chimes became stronger as she approached another reading room that was several yards down. It looked the exact same as the previous one. Except the door was completely closed rather than ajar. Christine squinted through the little window but could see nothing but darkness. With a deep breath, she threw the door open and switched on the light. She stepped inside. Her mind chimes rang out.

Nothing. An empty room and empty table met her. Silence. Stillness except in her head.

_Whoosh…._

Cold air rushed against her right cheek. Something black flew at the right corner of her vision. Christine whirled around, her arms up in front of her as though to protect herself. For a split second, she caught sight of something that looked like a hunched over Ghost of Christmas Future. A grim reaper. A black cloaked figure with the hood pulled up.

And the smell. It…He…The figure smelled of damp soil and oldness. And the cold.

Then it was all gone.

_What in the-?_

Placing a hand over her mouth, Christine turned and raced out of the room, not bothering to close the door. After glancing to the sides and seeing nothing, she ran down the stairs, her rapid footsteps causing several other employees to glance up. "Something wrong?" asked Joe as she quickly passed by.

"I—" She swallowed and turned to face him, nearly panting. "No. It was….There was someone-someone up there. I mean-"

"What kind of someone? They bother you?"

"N-no." Christine realized that she was going to sound ridiculous. "They were wearing a cloak. I mean, they were covered in a black cloak and running around. It wasn't really normal."

"Oh. Well, maybe it was a homeless person. Sometimes they stay here. I'll check it out, okay? Probably nothing to worry about."

Still trying to catch her breath, she sat at the desk and waited, wringing her hands together.

Her panic hadn't originated from what the figure did, looked like, or even the way it smelled. This was a college campus; there were always weird people around. One time, she'd seen a couple walking around in a dog and cat costume.

No, the figure scared her because of the feelings that had washed over her while in its presence. Waves of gloom had seemed to emanate from it, of sorrow and death and isolation and anger—and every negative emotion on the spectrum. Its strange energy caused her head to chime madly, and she had sensed it even without seeing or hearing it.

And that made no logical sense. That was insanity.

She heard heavy footsteps. Joe was returning. He glanced at her and shrugged. "Didn't see anything, kiddo. Probably no big deal. A weird student or a vagrant. If it's the latter and you see him again, we can call campus police."

"Thank, Joe."

Her hands were again ice-cold. For the rest of the night, she had a drawn-out case of the willies, even after she was safely tucked beneath warm sheets and covers. Despite her fear, she didn't call Meg or Raoul to tell them. Maybe a part of her doubted what she had seen—and felt.

Tomorrow was Friday, and she had only one more evening shift that would end two hours earlier. Maybe it had been a homeless person or a weird student doing some kind of public art performance. Whoever it was, they couldn't _make_ her head feel things. That kind of thinking would put her back into an institution. Throughout her classes that day, Christine kept reminding herself to get a grip. Especially through the abnormal psychology class.

"Heard you saw someone weird last night," said Alexis when Christine arrived at work. Alexis grabbed an object off her lap and quickly thrust it into her backpack. Then she quickly closed the computer browser. Christine raised an eyebrow, unable to see, but figured it was homework. "One time I found a homeless guy sleeping in the bathroom. I gave him the contact info for a homeless shelter."

"This one ran away before I could do anything like that," said Christine.

"That's creepy. You got pepper spray?"

"Yeah." She sighed and brushed her hair from her face. "Hopefully, I won't run into him again. At least I think it was a him."

Only one more night shift to get through. She would stay at the desk and not even go up there.

In just minutes-

_Head tingles._

It was getting ridiculous. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore them. _I am not going up there._

"Hey, can you help me with something?"

A lanky red-headed boy was standing there holding a spiral notebook.

"Um, yeah. How can I help you?" It was hard to focus.

"So I'm looking for this book." He showed her the title. "And I've got the number, but it's not on the shelves. The computer said it was here, though. So—any idea?"

"Um." She swallowed. Because how did she help him without going upstairs? She could tell him she was too busy and to find someone else, but—Ugh. "All right. Let's go take a look."

"Thanks! I looked around for a while." He followed her up the stairs as her head chimed. "You okay?" he asked, probably noticing her expression.

"Yeah. Allergies or something." _Head allergies. _"All right. Let's see." She browsed the shelves. After a minute, she found it lying horizontally across the tops of some other nearby books. Christine rolled her eyes. "There you go. Some people can't put things back, I guess."

"Thanks! I've got to find a couple of others. Then I'll be down to check it out."

"No problem," she murmured. The boy left her all alone in the silence. Christine hugged her arms up against her chest, her heart pounding beneath them. This time, the feeling didn't seem to be emanating from the reading rooms. It was coming from the shelves, from all around her.

She was both repelled by and attracted to it. Because if these sensations were actually tied to something real and tangible - what did that mean? This had never happened. The strange sensations were always random and unlinked to anything. Christine walked through the shelves, into shadows and around corners. Curiosity battled with fear.

Nothing was there. A student was studying at a table. She walked past him to the next rows of shelves. Nothing. _See? You are crazy, Christine. Great. Maybe I'll start hearing voices again, too._

She turned a corner, following the mind chimes like a dog stuck on a leash, desperate to prove to herself that something happening in her mind could not be tied to reality.

The chimes intensified as they had the previous night.

She turned another corner.

Cold air.

The smell.

A hand roughly clamped down on her left shoulder. She jumped into the air. Her mouth fell open, and a choked sound emerged. Right in her left ear, an eerie and scratchy whisper-

"_How_ do you always manage to know exactly where I am? Do not even think about screaming." The grip tightened, a clear threat.

Her heart stopped beating and then began to hammer madly. She started to turn her head to see her tormentor. The scent of soil and cold ground and almost—_death_ filled her nostrils.

"No. No. I did not ask you to turn around, did I? I asked you a very specific question. _Answer it_." She stood there gaping at a shelf of books. "Tick tock. The longer you take to answer, the longer I have to decide whether you are some sort of threat to me. What are you, hm?" And then he said something in a foreign tongue. Maybe a Middle Eastern language? When she didn't reply, too horrified to do anything but stand there trembling, he spoke in what nearly sounded like - _Latin?_ Of course, she had no response. "You are nothing," he finally whispered with disgust. "Nothing but a girl. So how do you always know where I am?"

"I d-don't know," she whispered. "A-accident."

"I do not believe in those." A pause. "But perhaps the higher or, more likely, lower powers are on my side tonight. You are employed here, yes? Perhaps you are here because you will be useful to me? Let's see, shall we? I am looking for a book. Leather and black with gold diamond markings on the spine. No title. And _you_ would not be able to read the words. It is very old."

"I don't—"

"Careful. I still have not decided whether you are a threat."

"The old c-c-coll—collec-"

"I looked there!" he snapped. "Yes, it was supposed to have arrived a week ago. _Nothing._"

"Then I don't know. I don't know. Please, p-please…."

"Please, please," the scratchy voice, like dry leaves crackling, mocked her. _"Useless."_ His fingers released her upper shoulder, and his palm gave her lower shoulder a light shove. She nearly ran into the bookcase. "_Please, please_ make it a point not to run into me again, do you understand? You will regret it."

She forced herself to nod and stood there staring ahead of her. Instantly, she sensed he was gone. The gloomy fog of despair and scent of death lifted, and she returned to the real world. With a sob, Christine turned and ran down the stairs and found Joe. He raced upstairs, again saw nothing, and then called the police.

Christine told them her story as well as she could remember it without sounding insane. A cloaked black figure wearing gloves. Had grabbed her and threatened her. And he wanted a book? They seemed to somewhat believe her at first.

"Probably an unbalanced homeless person," said the handsome officer. "Usually, they're harmless. But once in a while they start harassing people. We'll look into it."

But there was no evidence. Nothing on the security cameras that were stationed at the entrances. Nothing missing or left behind. No other students or employees had seen or heard anything strange. The police departed with a half-hearted promise to follow up.

"Maybe you should take a little time off," said Joe in a kind voice right before Christine left for the night. "Just get a little rest. If there's someone living in here, we'll find 'em. No worries."

And Christine weakly wondered if he thought she was crazy.

Maybe she was. Maybe that fragile fourteen-year-old had never gone away.

She cried all the way home.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you all! I'm happy you're enjoying this. Yes, it is going to take this E/C a long time to come together, although more direct interaction will start in the next chapter. They already do connect at quite a few levels. So I hope, as always, you enjoy the bumpy ride :)

**Read and Review!**

A bright sunny day with the hints of autumn in the air. Not much of a breeze. Perfect for tennis.

And yet Christine was still curled up in a ball under the covers when Raoul knocked on the front door. She checked the clock. A quarter past nine. With a sigh, she stumbled to the door in a t-shirt and cloud-decorated blue and white pajama pants. Glancing through the peephole, she saw Raoul dressed in a black shirt with the Adidas logo. "Oh, no," she muttered, remembering. Well, maybe she could throw her hair into a pony tail and fake a tennis-loving smile.

She opened the door. Raoul saw right through the smile. "Hey, Christine. Oh, you're not ready yet. Heh. That's fine." A pause. "Are you okay?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Well, your eyes are kind of red. Are you sick?"

"I—" She sighed and stepped aside so that he could come in. "No, I'm not sick. I don't want to make us late. And I need to get dressed. And—"

"Hey. No big deal. I'll text that we'll be a little late. They live close to the courts, so it's fine." He took out his phone and did so as Christine slowly sat on the sofa, hands resting on her knees and shoulders tense. Raoul came to sit beside her. "So what's going on?"

"This is going to sound completely insane but—" Christine told him the story, leaving out the part about the head tingles. Unfortunately, that made it sound like the cloaked figure had threatened her over nothing but an accidental encounter—which wasn't entirely true. She had been tracking him.

Hadn't she? Or was that crazy? Was she actually acknowledging that something in her mind was related to something in reality? In any case, she didn't want Raoul to think she'd completely lost it.

"And I don't think anyone believes me," she finished, brushing her hair from her face. "Whoever he is, he doesn't leave much evidence behind."

"Yeah, sounds like a nutcase," Raoul replied, his forehead crinkling with concern. "Maybe you shouldn't be working there so late, at least until they catch the guy. The police need to do their damn job."

"Yeah. I don't have to work a later shift next week."

"Good. You're welcome to quit altogether. It'll all work out. No worries."

"No. I don't want to quit. Except for this, I love it there." It _had_ been such a low-stress and peaceful job.

"Okay. Well, keep telling people if you see this guy again. Heck, call me next time, k? I'll beat him up!"

She softly laughed, grateful to get some of this off her chest. Still, Christine was burdened with the fact that she couldn't tell anyone the extent of what was happening.

"So maybe this morning's not the best time for tennis?" he asked with a crooked smile.

"Maybe not," she agreed. "Especially after what happened last time." They'd been playing doubles with the same couple, and Christine was up at the net. A short, high-bouncing ball had landed right beside her feet. Raoul had excitedly told her to "smash it in there." And then, with every bit of her strength and an embarrassingly loud grunt, Christine had slammed the ball right into the net. Her face had turned bright red as everyone burst out laughing.

"Well, I haven't had that many lessons," she'd snapped at her chuckling boyfriend. He'd wiped his smile away and reassured her that it wasn't a big deal. It happened to the best of them.

But it wasn't just her poor performance. Christine supposed the country club atmosphere made her a little uncomfortable after growing up with practically no money. She was always dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts while most of the other women were wearing formfitting tennis dresses. No one was mean or rude; it was Christine's problem and not theirs. Still, heading to the club this morning wasn't going to improve her cracked confidence.

"Let's stay here and hang out," Raoul suggested. "Or go out for brunch or something? I'll let Neil know we're not coming."

"Was he upset?" she asked as Raoul's phone beeped with a new message. He showed her the screen. Neil had sent him a sad face. "Aw. Gosh. I feel terrible."

"He's just kidding," said Raoul. "Don't worry about it, Christine. I don't want you to be alone here and so upset. Especially when this entire thing isn't your fault."

He took her out to brunch at a nice restaurant with vases of flowers on all the white tablecloths, and she enjoyed a ham and cheese quiche and glass of orange juice. It was the most she'd eaten in the last forty-eight hours. They took a walk around the park, and she started to perk up under the rays of sunshine.

"So how'd you like to come with me to California over the winter break?" asked Raoul. "I know you like a white Christmas. But my parents are going down there and invited us to come."

"That sounds fun," she said. Since her father died, she'd either spent the holidays with Meg or Raoul. Sometimes a distant relative would invite her to their house, but she felt more comfortable with her friend and boyfriend. Meg's mother would even fill a stocking for her with lots of foil wrapped chocolate. "Yeah, I'll plan on it. Maybe I can decorate a palm tree."

"I saw a Santa-painted coconut one time." He walked her to the door. She considered asking him to watch a movie but desired a little alone time. And he probably didn't want to be around her mopey self all day anyway. "So you feeling better?" he asked.

"Yes." She rubbed her forehead. "Maybe I just blew the whole thing out of proportion."

"Call me if it happens again, okay?"

"I will. Love you."

"Love you, too."

She kissed him goodbye and took a deep breath as she closed the door.

With a clearer head and a full stomach, Christine attempted to put it all into perspective and escape her depression. So what was the real truth?

She was certain that the figure was real. She'd seen, heard, smelled, and physically felt him.

But—that sixth sense. How could she rationally explain that? Why would she actually sense him in her mind? Christine badly wanted to write it off as some awful coincidence. Maybe by pure chance her ears were ringing at the exact same time that a belligerent homeless man was walking around the library? Because there were only two other possibilities.

Either both the head tingles and the cloaked man were delusions - in which case she would be officially crazy. She might as well check herself in somewhere.

Or - something unnatural…something supernatural was happening. And that was impossible. She refused to even consider it, focusing on other things instead.

Christine watched _Casablanca _with a bowl of popcorn that wasn't burned_._ She tried to do some theory homework and then gave up. And then she made herself go through one box.

As she broke through the taped cardboard, the scent of the apartment she'd last shared with her father met her, instantly bringing back a billion memories. Going to jazz festivals and cheap concerts with him on warm evenings. Listening to him strum his guitar as she did her homework. Eating his lasagna and picking out the mushrooms.

The box contained a stack of photographs, many with her and even a few of her mother…some of his sports and music trophies from high school…albums of 1960's and 70's bands…biographical books about band members. She even found some of his older recordings from when he'd tried to sell his music.

She would keep these things. Most of the less meaningful belongings like clothing had been given to charity or thrown away. But these items were parts of him. She guessed the other boxes had similar things. Eventually, she'd get through them all.

Christine spent Sunday taking another crack at her homework and straightening up her house. Meg invited her out to coffee in the late afternoon. They talked about school and relationships, and Christine didn't bring up the past week, not wanting to repeat the story. She was tired of thinking about it, of overanalyzing it. Maybe she'd try to forget that the whole thing had ever happened.

Monday was a fabulous day. Her lecture about the psychological effects of music was interesting, about how playing an instrument affects language skills and creativity. She already knew from experience that music could bring calmness and lessen her anxiety. Her afternoon shift at the library arrived and was completely peaceful. She helped people and shelved books. Her head didn't tingle. Only Regina made Christine a little uncomfortable when she asked," Everything going well, dear? Heard you had a scare…."

She couldn't detect whether her supervisor thought she was crazy, too. Christine only said, "Yes. Have they found anyone yet?"

"Nope. Nothing yet. But we'll keep watch. It wouldn't be the first time that someone tried to live in the library."

Maybe Regina did believe her.

She was in a wonderful mood by the time her shift was over. Raoul texted her: _Everything going okay?_

_Yep! Great!_

_No shadowy figures that I need to beat up?_

_Not yet. Only a spider in my bathroom that you need to kill :(_

_Hehe. Awesome. Love you!_

_Love you, too!_

Tuesday arrived and began the same way.

But it was the decision to go to a computer lab in the late afternoon that changed everything. Christine had needed to print homework off for a class and went to a station that was several buildings away from the library.

The lab was half-full. Alexis was in there, her face close to a computer screen and a large, open book beside her.

"Hi," said Christine with a friendly wave.

"Oh, hi there." Alexis shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She glanced at the screen and then back at Christine.

"How's it going? Busy?"

"It's good. Yeah. Busy." She seemed to want Christine to go away. With a shrug, Christine strode by her and found an empty computer. She glanced toward Alexis several times, beginning to get a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. After finding her document on a flash drive and pressing the print button, Christine got up to walk to the central printer. She quietly paused behind Alexis and glanced at the screen. Alexis was using some type of translation software, a much more sophisticated program than the free ones on the Internet.

Christine reached out and grabbed the cover of the book. She half-closed it so that she could see the front.

Black.

Leather. No title. And-

Christine bent her neck.

Gold diamonds swirling down the spine.

"Hey!" Alexis exclaimed, startling both Christine and the guy sitting next to her. "Jeez. Nosy much?"

Christine slowly looked up at her, her hand trembling as she set the cover back down on the table. "What is this?" she whispered.

"Just a homework assignment."

Christine stared at her. "Did you take this from the library? Did Regina say you could?"

"How did you even know—All right. You caught me." She put both hands up in the air, palms outward as though in a holdup. "I saw it when Regina and I were first going through them. It was so cool that I wanted to take a look at it. I can't read the writing, but—" Alexis flipped through several pages. "Look at these designs. You can tell it's old occult stuff. I've been trying to translate some of it with this software my professor gave me. Not having much luck yet."

"Regina said you could?"

"Nah. But she won't miss it. You know how spacey she is. I don't think she even saw it when it came."

"So—so you stole it?"

"_No._ Jesus. Chill out. I'll bring it back, Christine. There are a gazillion books. No one's going to miss this one. And if I get into grad school, this may be the kind of stuff I want to research."

"Alexis," she whispered, her hands dropping to her sides. "I think you should take that one back."

"Why? I'll bring it back when I'm finished. I'm not going to be an idiot and spill coffee on it or anything."

"Please," said Christine. "Please just take it back to the library. I won't tell. I promise." She had this horrible vision of Alexis walking around in the dark with it.

And then both Alexis and the book disappearing forever.

"Look. I just want it for another couple of weeks. How did you even know about it, huh? You weren't there when they came. Someone tell on me?"

She ignored the question. "I'll tell Regina."

"Why? What's wrong with you? Everyone's right. You are getting really weird."

"What?"

"Joe told Regina you flipped out. He said you're seeing things upstairs. Are you like clinically paranoid?"

Christine glared slightly. And then pathetically replied, "Well, at least I'm not a thief." Alexis looked like she was going to come back with a retort. But several people were staring at them now.

"Fine," snapped Alexis. She closed the book and shoved it toward Christine. "You take it back if you're so damned worried. I can't believe you're being such a bitch. See if I ever help you out." Grabbing her backpack, she shut off the computer, took out a CD, and then stormed away.

"But-" Christine stared down at the book with near horror. Her palms were sweaty. "But I don't want it." Alexis was gone, though.

She could have left it there. But then someone else would have picked the book up, finding it interesting for the same reasons that Alexis had. There was something kind of eerie and mysterious about it. Christine suddenly felt responsible for that stupid book.

Slowly, she picked it up, tucked it beneath her arm, and found an empty classroom. Checking over her shoulders, Christine carefully opened it, the pages yellowed and fragile. The cloaked figure was right; she couldn't read the ornate bold text. Only some of the symbols were recognizable. A crescent moon. A flower.

_What to do?_

Fear and curiosity battled in her heart and mind. She should go to the library and take it upstairs, just leave it resting on a center table. Hopefully, some other student wouldn't grab it.

She felt like she was holding a grenade as she walked to the library, the sun slowly descending. Her head began to lightly chime. _Oh, no._

"Christine? You're not working tonight, right?" asked Joe with concern when she came in.

"No. Just doing some research," she replied, unable to keep a touch of annoyance out of her voice.

"Ah. Good. Hope you're getting some rest."

A girl named Chloe was at the desk. She was a recent hire, kind of quiet, and Christine didn't know her all that well. They nodded at each other.

Christine took a deep breath as she reached the top of the stairs. The tables were full of students studying. Maybe she should go put it near the collection of older books, where no one would pick it up.

With every chime, _he_ came closer and closer. It was no coincidence. And the terrifying answer to whether she was insane or experiencing a supernatural occurrence boiled down to whether the figure was real.

The book seemed extra heavy in her arms. There were fewer students around as she approached the special collections room. An empty table sat in front of her. As the sensations in her head became more intense, Christine placed the book right in the center of it.

With a swallow, she stepped backwards. She could have run away at that moment; maybe that would have been the end of this. Yet a part of her now needed an answer to the question of her sanity. Trembling, Christine walked several yards away from the table and hid behind some shelves that were filled with books. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and flipped it to the camera setting. Holding her breath, she waited as the chimes continued to grow in intensity. Peeking over the tops of books, she had a perfect view of the table.

Once she had him on camera, she'd have her answer. Christine would show everyone the cloaked figure and then they'd feel bad for ever doubting her.

And, if there was nothing in the picture, she'd find a psychiatrist.

Stronger and stronger. Louder and louder. Any moment, he was going to appear and grab the book that she'd so carefully placed out for him in plain view.

Any moment….

"_Waiting for someone?"_ asked a scratchy voice in her ear.

He was right behind her.

Unable to stop herself, Christine screamed and jumped up into the air, dropping her phone on the carpet. She gasped, hands up to push him away.

The smell. A whoosh of black. Christine stumbled forward and attempted to run, dashing out from between the shelves. A nearby door opened right in front of her, smacking her squarely in the face and forehead. In a cascade of agony and blurred colors, she fell to her knees on the rough carpet, clutching her skull. The chimes mingled with the pounding of pain. When she opened her eyes, both Joe and Regina were kneeling beside her.

"Christine?" asked Regina.

Christine softly groaned. A female student was standing there, too. "I am so sorry. I heard her screaming and then came running out really fast. I didn't see her."

"It's fine," said Regina. "You don't need to stay, dear." A pause. "Oh, you didn't see anyone else, did you? Another person?"

"Nope," said the girl. "Just her."

Regina nodded. "Thank you."

"Be careful," said Joe as Christine struggled to rise up and glance at the desk. The book was gone now.

"No, no, no," Christine practically whimpered. "He was here! I heard him!"

"It's going to be fine," said Regina, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Maybe I should call an ambulance," said Joe.

"No," Christine protested. "I'm fine. I just—I know he was here. I know it!" She saw Regina and Joe exchange a concerned glance.

"Is there at least someone who can come get you?" asked Regina.

"Yes," she murmured in defeat. "My boyfriend. Let me—Where's my phone? I…I dropped my phone!"

"Where?" asked Joe. They helped her back up to her feet, and she shakily led them to where she'd been standing. Nothing was on the carpet.

"I know it was here," Christine frantically muttered. "_He_ must have taken it."

"You can call your boyfriend downstairs," gently replied Regina, guiding her by the shoulder. "I'm sure you just misplaced it."

It had been many years since Christine had felt this horrible.

When Raoul came in about twenty minutes later, Regina gently pulled him aside. They spoke in low voices. Raoul seemed frustrated. Christine could hear him say, "Well, are you sure there's no one up there? Maybe she did—"

Regina shrugged and said something about security systems. She patted him on the shoulder and murmured, "Make sure she gets some rest."

Raoul finally approached her with a tired expression. "Babe. Come on. Let's go home."

"Do you still believe me?" Christine softly asked as she climbed into the car, her arms up against her chest.

"Yeah, sure." He shook his head. "So you actually saw him again?"

"I heard him," she replied. She should have stopped talking then. But her head was hurting and she was still panicking. "First in my mind. And then in my ear."

"In your _mind_?" Raoul turned and blinked at her, nearly not stopping at the red light.

"No." She tried to rescue the conversation. "I-I just got startled by something and screamed. It was silly. Maybe it wasn't even him. And then someone hit me with a door. That's all."

"But you weren't working there tonight?"

"No. Studying," she lied.

"Oh."

"My head hurts," she whispered, placing her hands to her temples.

"We'll get you home," he replied, hands tightening on the wheel.

What if the cloaked figure wasn't real?

After all, what made more sense? That she had a psychic connection with a grim reaper that was haunting the library? A dark figure that no one else could see….

Or that it was _all_ in her head?

But she'd known about the book! How had she known that Alexis had stolen that book? The figure had told her it was missing! Had she subconsciously found out some other way and then made up an insane story in her mind? It was possible.

More possible than supernatural chimes that led her to library phantoms.

Still, Christine wasn't ready to tell Raoul that she was getting sick again. She didn't want to see that expression of sympathy on his face as he wondered whether she was going to be worth the effort. Doctor visits. Shrinks. Meds.

No, she wasn't ready to tell him.

No more words were exchanged. She just let him hold her that night.

* * *

><p>He did not recall the exact moment when he'd realized that no one else had a <em>thing<em> attached to them. Most people went about their lives without whispers in their mind. Most people were not enslaved at birth to an invisible entity.

At around the age of nine, as he sat in an orphanage and waited for the thing to tell him where to go next, he had discovered a book on mental illness in children. Perhaps it had been left there by one of the workers. After flipping through it, he had briefly wondered if he was insane.

Yet the woman who had cared for him long ago, Irene, had believed in _it._ Were they both mad?

The psychiatry book had slammed shut on his fingers. No, one could not simply imagine that, could they? More out of experimentation than anything else, he'd attempted to ignore the _thing_ for a week. Again, his body broke out into a terrible rash. Until he had cured it by throttling another boy. As the workers at the children's home approached the bloody scene with utter fear on their faces, the thing said it was time to leave.

And he knew for certain that _it_ was real.

That was how the rest of his life had gone. He was not meant to have a home; he was meant to be a wanderer. His only permanent attachment was to the thing.

But his curiosity did not vanish. He knew he was not mentally ill. But what was the thing? And, more importantly, what was he? He had spent many years investigating this.

The literature on possession was quite expansive, both in ancient texts and more modern reports. The symptoms were numerous. Convulsions. Fainting. Speaking in languages. Voice and appearance changes. Lesions. Extreme strength. Sudden knowledge from no visible source. Rage.

Furthermore, every faith had its own types of otherworldly creatures. He'd read through numerous holy texts and scrolls. He had looked into _The Lesser Key of Solomon_ and its listing of demons. And _The Book of Abramelin_, which even referenced using demons to do one's bidding. In the end, though, it had been like trying to apply fairy tales to his reality. Even accounts of possession that existed in more modern literature were suspect, likely the results of actual mental illness. Once in a great while, perhaps five times in his life, he had crossed paths with someone who radiated a certain energy. He had looked into their eyes and seen blackness. Two of them were eerily composed and stoic. Three were almost twitchy, as though ants were crawling all over the skin. Perhaps those were the possessed? He would never know.

In any case, _he_ was not possessed in this sense. The thing was not inside him, forcing him do things against his will. It manipulated, abused, and rewarded him—but it did not directly control. Desperately, he combed through information to find some example of his own situation and perhaps to discover his eventual fate.

He had only two accounts of which he was certain. Two possible fates at each end of the spectrum.

The first came from his own experience. And was the reason that he had first wondered if that girl in the library, Christine, was something other than human.

Christine was the second person to purposefully make contact with him. Most people either did not notice him, due to the human brain filtering out the unpleasant. Or they fled from him.

The first person to connect with him had no longer been human, not really. He recalled the handsome man's initial words to him. _"I can't kill you, and you can't kill me. So let's not waste any time with that. Besides, Erik, we're precisely on the same side, aren't we? And I'm here to help you, my friend."_

That man represented one possible fate for him. He was dead now, his contract expired.

His other possible fate came through the words of a female but in a much different form. A journal entry from the early 1700's, written by a young woman, Gertrude. Translated, the passage was titled: _The Talking Corpse Chained to the Wall._

Both destinies were horrid.

There had to be a way between them.

Or a way to die quickly instead of watching his body disintegrate over the next forty years.

But, so far, he had found nothing that worked. No exorcism or ritual that he'd performed on himself or paid (or threatened) others to do. The thing was bound to him.

Still, he refused to stop searching.

With the black leather book in hand, he had spent an entire night desperately hunting for new knowledge. Along with the normal literature on possessions, the book did speak of bargains with the underworld. Most concerned people foolishly making deals in exchange for their own souls. But then—

_The act of bargaining one's child or family members away to the darkness is one of the blackest forms of sorcery…. Unknown as to whether it is even possible._

His lip had turned upward. Well, he could answer that one. Perhaps he should write his own damned book.

And then he had seen what he did not want to see—

_From what little is known, the afflicted individual has no means of destroying this sort of agreement._

He had slammed the book closed in anger. Another cold dead end? He would examine it more later.

Hours later, hidden away from the sunlight, he closed his yellow eyes as the carefree murmur of students and faculty surrounded him. His whole body ached, and the cracks in his hands burned. He could not even play the violin without agony. He was nearly stooped over when he walked. His once beautiful voice was an ugly shadow of itself.

The thing fed a thought into his mind—_Why do you do this to yourself, Erik? It could be so simple._

Another nearby voice drowned _it_ out. A familiar voice. He glanced up from his shadowy corner. "Everyone thinks I'm nuts. I'm going to get fired if Alexis says that I stole that stupid book! Raoul's really worried about me. God, I'm a wreck."

"Aw. Christine. I'm sure it'll work out. It's so stupid that no one believes you. I'm sure if it was a guy saying this stuff, they'd believe him. Do you want to go to the Dean of Students or something?"

"I don't want to make this worse than it already is. And—to be honest, I'm starting to wonder if they're right. Maybe…maybe I am seeing things."

"Oh, gosh. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Meg. I don't think so. I'm just going to get through the day. And think about it all later." A pause.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Just my head—"

"A headache?"

"Something like that." A sigh. "I guess I'd better get to my lesson. At least that'll put me in a better mood. It's the only thing I have to look forward to these days."

"Good luck! I'll call you tonight. And you call me if you need anything."

"Thanks."

From behind a concrete wall, he glanced at her. Small and frail with tear-stained cheeks and messy hair. He sensed no wrongness or darkness or really anything extraordinary about her, outside of the fact that she'd pursued him. He'd looked her up in the university computer system and searched through her phone. So far, Christine Daae was proving to be incredibly dull.

And perhaps not too bright. Trying to take his picture? Did she really think him that unaware of his surroundings?

Perhaps she did. She knew nothing of him. And now he knew her address, phone number, class schedule, grades, and salary. Far more than he wanted.

Yet he had also learned of her musical talent, the one part of her that interested him. And it was no coincidence that he was there that day. He had nothing better to do except decay beneath the ground. Eventually, he would journey onto his next quest. He would have to move quickly, before he was physically unable to do so.

But this made for a short break. And he was still somewhat suspicious of the second person in his lifetime to ever have a keen awareness of him.

He followed her until she went behind a door. They were separated until the door cracked open without him touching it, as though _it_ wanted him to hear what was occurring on the other side.

"How are you today?" asked a man.

"I've been better," she replied. "It's been an awful week so far. But I'm looking forward to this."

"Well, good. Music makes everything better, right?"

"Yep! That's why I'm going into musical therapy." Papers were shuffled.

"Something wrong?" the man asked. "You keep rubbing your head. Need an aspirin?"

"No. I'm just fine. _Nothing_ is going to ruin this for me today."

The man chuckled at the anger in her soft tone. _His_ own dry lip turned up slightly. A piano played. She began her warm-ups and then she sang.

She _sang._

He did not move throughout the entire lesson. He did not even move as she left the room. Her papers blew from her hands and landed behind her in the hallway. With a sigh, Christine turned around to bend down and collect them, giving him another glimpse of her face. Her little nose was scrunched up in irritation. Her blonde hair delicately framed soft cheeks.

He should have left at that very instant.

He should have gone thousands of miles away and chained himself to a wall beneath the ground.

He should have saved her from himself.

But beneath his hideous body and cold, calculating mind…beneath the evil that always accompanied him—there was some semblance of a human being. Of a man.

And men are weak.


	8. Chapter 8

Here we go. A bit different than the normal initial power structure between them. But I promise it'll go somewhere….

**Read and Review!**

The chimes became far less predictable.

Christine heard them during her next vocal lesson. Strong and unrelenting, pulsing more quickly than usual. It wasn't enough to distract her and, by concentrating on her voice, she could drown them out. Still, the incident pointed to a further disintegration of her sanity.

At Regina's insistence, Christine took off work for the rest of the week. At first, she was happy to avoid the library and all its strangeness. But location no longer mattered. Even after her vocal lesson, the bells continued to ring. On Thursday and Friday, she would hear them as she walked to her later classes and to the bus stop, the days becoming shorter and darker. Sometimes it sounded like they came from beneath her feet. Or from behind corners. Or from above. She said nothing about them to Raoul or to Meg when she came over for chick flicks on Friday night. What good would it do?

As far as the library ghost went—she was still convincing herself that he wasn't real either. The chimes could no longer be tied to him if she heard the sounds outside the library, right?

Not unless he was following her—which was too ridiculous to imagine.

The chimes disappeared on Saturday, and she spent much of the rainy day indoors. She and Raoul went out to dinner at an Italian restaurant, and Christine was alarmed by the concern in his eyes. "Everything going okay?" he immediately asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I've been fine. Holding it together."

He took her hand across the table and squeezed. A candle in a glass holder warmly danced between them as the lights dimmed. "Let me know if you ever want me to come over. Anything. Just be honest about what you need."

"I'll be fine. I…If it doesn't get better soon, I'll see someone. But I don't want to be your burden. That's not what this relationship is going to be like. Ms. Crazy and Mr. Stable."

He looked a little hurt. "I never meant it like that. I care about you. A lot."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I've worked so, so hard to be independent. My dad freaked out and became really overprotective. And I don't want that to happen again."

Raoul nodded. "I get it. But you'll let me know if I can help, right? And not keep things from me?"

"Yeah. Of course. I'll be okay."

Still, Christine knew that she wasn't going to tell him everything. At least not until she figured it out.

_At least I know I'm crazy. I'm not one of those people wearing foil on my head and waiting for the mother ship to contact me._

She had a mid-afternoon shift at work on Monday. It'd rained all day, and a moistness in the air mingled with the scent of old books to create a heavy odor. Alexis was just packing up as she arrived. They exchanged a brief and frigid glance. Christine's heart jumped as Regina approached her. "How are you feeling, dear?"

"Fine, thanks," Christine replied. "I'm really sorry about last week."

"Oh, don't be. I made Joe look around. But we didn't find anything, I'm afraid."

Christine took a breath and looked her supervisor in the eye. "You know, it probably was my imagination. Maybe I'm studying too hard."

This comment seemed to make her supervisor relax slightly. Regina smiled and squeezed Christine's shoulder. "Well, you take all the time off you need. Mental health is so important. Are you taking a meditation class?"

"Not right now."

"Well, you should be. Everyone should in this sort of world with all the cell phones and e-mail and nonstop nonsense."

"I might do that," Christine replied. Regina left, and no one mentioned the black book. Maybe Alexis was afraid she'd be the one to get in trouble over it.

Finally, Christine was alone at the desk. Few students were around that day, probably extending their weekend by an extra day. Thunder rumbled overhead.

_Chime, chime, chime._

Christine squeezed her eyes closed. If she wanted to keep her life - her job and degree and fantastic boyfriend - she was going to have to ignore her crazy mind.

_Chime, chime, chime._

_Okay, Christine. Breathe. In and out. In and out. Ignore them._

Head held high, Christine soon went upstairs to shelve a basket of books. She forced herself not to purposefully walk toward or away from the sounds. She would not let them control her any longer.

And then she heard another noise. Poor quality classical music. The beginning of _Eine kleine Nachtmusik_.

A guy reading at one of the tables glanced toward the sound with annoyance, and Christine knew she wasn't imagining it. She quickly followed the noise, walking in between the shelves as her heart began to pound.

The sound was a phone ringtone.

Her phone's ringtone. Its _new_ ringtone, anyway. Her old one had been a 90's ballad. The cell phone had been placed in an empty spot on one of the metal shelves, right beside a biography of Mozart.

She shakily picked it up. The background had also been changed. Instead of a solid blue, now black notes cascaded up and down the white screen. The phone stopped ringing before she could answer. Her trembling fingers checked for the incoming number. It was blocked.

Christine swallowed. Well, it was a good thing she'd waited to buy a new phone, right? Concerned, Raoul had given her a prepaid phone for the weekend, and she'd promised to find a new one by the end of that week. But the company was supposed to have canceled her service on the lost phone. Obviously, they hadn't. Was good karma finally here?

And yet Christine couldn't shake a nervous feeling that someone had wanted her to find the phone at that exact moment. As she stepped out from between the shelves, she glanced around. Nothing was out of place. No one was watching her.

Light chimes lingered in her mind. She quickly finished shelving the books, probably shoving some of them in the wrong spot, and then ran back downstairs. She remained there the rest of her shift. Joe came in and asked, "How you doing, kiddo?"

She curtly replied, "Just fine."

When her shift ended, Christine wasn't ready to go sit in her empty and lonely apartment. Instead, she walked to a nearby building with a comfortable room for studying. It had plushy couches and armchairs and polished tables. The College of Business was clearly well-funded. To her disappointment, the room was nearly empty, only two other students present. The girl soon got up to leave with a yawn. Then it was only Christine and a guy who was sitting in one of the armchairs and flipping through a pile of papers.

Christine took a seat at a table and stared down at her homework. _Choose a key. Time signature. Chord progression. Melody. Tempo._ At least the piece wasn't due until the end of the semester. Maybe she could procrastinate a little longer. She looked at the assignments that were due sooner. _Transpose the given melodies….Notate the indicated modes…._

She knew these things, and yet the last weeks had stolen her concentration away. Words, notes, and measures blended together. _Chime, chime, chime._

"Aw, man." The guy in the chair then muttered an obscenity. Christine could see why. A strong gust of air from somewhere—the vent?—had sent his papers scattering all over the carpet. With a sigh, he bent down to pick them up. He glanced at her and shook his head. "Guess that's a sign it's time to go."

She softly laughed and then nervously watched as he left her there alone. In the distance, a professor was giving a lecture. Otherwise there was silence.

_Chime, chime, chime._

Christine rubbed her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. _It's in your head, Christine. It's just in your head._

Yet she couldn't stop herself from whispering in the tense silence, "Who's there?"

There was no reply. She started to look back at her homework. And then the scratchy voice said, "You know the answer to that. You can sense me. _Always._ Even when you cannot see or hear me. Why is this?"

Placing a hand to her heart, she jumped up and whirled around. She saw no one. "Oh, God," Christine murmured.

"I will not harm you," the raspy voice continued. "But why do you sense me? How?"

"No, no." She rapidly shook her head back and forth. "This isn't real. It can't be!"

"Yet it is - Christine." Her name was said in a strange way, like someone trying to speak a foreign word for the first time. "Neither of us can deny this now."

"Stop," she groaned. "Please stop!" Christine grabbed the strap of her backpack and ran out the glass doors. To the bus stop where she anxiously waited for ten minutes, pacing and checking over her shoulder every so often. As though that would stop the thing in her head from grabbing her. The chimes ceased once she was on the bus, yet she still hugged her arms against her chest throughout the bumpy, exhaust-scented ride. Thankfully, few people were around to witness her acting crazily.

Once off the bus, Christine ran all the way home, her flat sandals pounding against the pavement and sending painful vibrations through her feet and legs. Throwing the door to her apartment open, she realized that she'd left half of her homework on the table in the study room. It didn't matter; she'd hardly done any of it. An _Incomplete_ was the least of her worries.

She jumped into bed and threw the covers over her head. As the sun set and the room darkened, Christine stayed there until she fell into a very uneasy sleep, not bothering to undress or brush her teeth. The following morning, she immediately called her insurance company to find out which nearby therapists they would cover. She made an afternoon appointment with a woman for that Friday. This was not something she could fight by herself or simply ignore. The past had returned. She was sick again.

Christine shakily took a shower, searching for the pieces of normalcy that were always taken for granted. Did she dare leave the house? Did she call Raoul and tell him the extent of her illness? She was supposed to work that day. Since her craziness was no longer contained to the library, specifically avoiding the building didn't make any sense. And she had her voice lesson tomorrow; she couldn't miss that. And telling Raoul would just make him worry even more. She didn't call her boyfriend. She went to work.

Christine prepared for anything once she stepped out into the sunshine, the humidity making her bangs stick to her forehead. Voices. Shadows. _If it doesn't seem real, then it's probably not real._

Work began normally. Then the chimes began, and she desperately ignored them.

But, once again, it was impossible to ignore her phone.

While she was upstairs helping a student, a text arrived. She pulled out her buzzing phone and glanced at the message. _The table on the far right. _From a blocked number.

Her stomach flip-flopped. "Do you have everything you need?" she shakily asked the boy she'd been assisting.

"Yeah. Thanks!" He waved and walked off.

What else was she going to do but look? Christine made her way over there, past several tables of chattering students. Already, she could see several white pages on the tabletop. Her heart jumped when she looked down. Her homework. And it was now all complete.

Kind of. The handwriting was so terrible that she could barely read it. But, if she squinted, Christine could make out notes, sharps, rests, and other musical symbols.

There was also a smaller piece of yellow notebook paper with a scribbled note. At first, she was confused by the instructions, but then Christine realized it was related to her singing—breathing techniques, relaxing her tongue, keeping her larynx steady….

"What in the-?" The papers rattled because her hands were shaking.

Nearly running back downstairs, Christine found Regina at her computer. Her hair was up in a purple scarf, and she was wearing earrings in the shape of hippo heads. She smiled, utterly relaxed as Christine tried not to panic. "Yes, dear? What's wrong?"

"Can you see this?" she whispered, thrusting out the cell phone.

"Oh, you found your phone! Upstairs? That's wonderful!"

"This message," Christine continued, keeping her voice steady. "Can you see it?"

"The table on the far right," Regina read. She glanced up over her glasses. "What about it, dear?

"And this?" Christine eagerly said, holding up her homework.

"What? No, I can't read music all too well. And I certainly can't read that handwriting. My goodness, Christine. Your penmanship is almost as bad as some of the faculty's." She softly laughed. "Is there something you need?"

"No," Christine murmured. "No. I'm…fine. Just fine."

But she felt dizzy. Because _this_ was all real. She hadn't sent a text to herself or completed her homework.

The chimes arrived when she went to her voice lesson the following day. Mostly out of experimentation, Christine obeyed the instructions in the note to the best of her ability.

"Wow. Have you been practicing?" asked Ian. "I don't think I've ever heard you better than this. Amazing. I might find something a little more advanced for next time. But don't wear your voice out."

After that, Christine turned the completed homework in without a word. She wasn't afraid of failing the assignment. The truth had finally become far more important than fear.

Halfway into her shift, as the chimes rang in her head, she very deliberately went upstairs. Randomly choosing a reading room, Christine went inside and turned on the light. She left the door halfway open. She sat at an empty table and folded her trembling hands together on top of it. And waited. And waited. Only her pounding heart betrayed her calm demeanor.

If he was real, then he was nearby. Neither spoke a word. A part of her still wanted to run away. Yet then this cycle would never end. She would spend the rest of her life questioning her sanity.

"Who's there?" she asked.

No answer.

"What do you want?" she asked.

A pause. And then that rough voice- "I told you this. I want to know why you can sense me."

She swallowed and willed herself to stay put. "I don't know. I don't even know if you're real."

"Why? Does not all evidence point to the fact that I am?

"Because no one else ever sees you," she replied, staring at the table. "Only me."

"Ah. Well, perhaps it is better if I am not real? More reassuring for you?"

"No. Then that would make me insane." She looked around. Having a conversation with a disembodied voice wasn't helping her case for sanity. What if she were talking to herself right now? "Where are you?"

"My physical presence is highly revolting."

"Well, I really don't like having voices in my head." She clasped her hands together and squeezed her fingers into her palm. Her nails made red crescent moon imprints into her skin. "Maybe I am just crazy," she whispered to herself.

A soft, scratchy chuckle. "Fine, fine. Let us settle this ridiculousness. Step out of this room. I will show you that Christine Daae is no more insane than the rest of us!"

She slowly stood and obeyed the voice, walking just outside the room. She nervously waited for a cloaked shadow to pop up in front of her.

"Do you see that group of females on your right?" he asked in her ear.

She shivered and looked. Five girls, probably freshmen or sophomores, were softly giggling around an end table in a very unsuccessful study session. "Yes," she replied. "I see them."

"Watch," he whispered. "This will be amusing."

About a minute passed. Christine nearly left, continuing to question her own sanity. But then, in the blink of an eye, a black cloaked figure was silently kneeling amongst them at the table. She gasped. It took the girls about five seconds to realize they had company. One brunette glanced up at him, her grin collapsing into an "o" of fear and surprise. With squeals, the girls jumped up and ran away from the table. "Oh my God! Oh my God!" It would have been very funny under other circumstances.

The cloaked figure had disappeared by the time the girls turned back around. Laughing and muttering nervously, they slowly returned to collect their purses and backpacks. Christine could hear them chattering. "Where'd he go? Was that some stupid hidden camera thing?"

"We were study-bombed!"

"What?"

"Instead of photo-bombed, we were study-bombed."

"Nikki, that is like the lamest thing I've ever heard. It was probably a weirdo art student."

"Did you smell something?"

"People are so annoying here. They probably don't shower. I miss high school."

They walked off together, tossing their long hair indignantly.

Christine watched all of it with her mouth half-open.

"You see?" _he_ said into her ear, causing her to shudder once again. "They see me if I permit it. Only _you_ are the exception to this. You know when I am near, whether I wish it or not. Why?"

She stepped backwards and into the plaster wall. No one else was nearby. No one would be able to help her. "You're real," she whispered.

"Is not that what you wanted? Proof of your sanity?"

"I don't know. That means you can - Who are you? What do you want?"

"I have answered that question."

She rapidly shook her head. "I told you that I don't know why I can hear you! But maybe-maybe you should leave me alone. Ever since you came, things have been…they've been _terrible_."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, trying to gather herself together. When she opened her lids and looked up, _he_ was sitting at the table in the reading room. Christine started, fully taking him in for the first time. A black cloak flowed from head to toe. A black mask covered his face and fully turned him into a shadow, save for a flicker of yellow that was occasionally visible beneath the drooping hood. His gloved hands seemed long and bony, and the material of the cloak had little support. She guessed he was very, very thin. It was difficult to discern his height; he was somewhat hunched over. The smell of damp soil returned, unpleasant but bearable. A gloom settled over the room.

"Who are you?" she asked, beginning to wonder if this was Death personified. "Are you homeless?"

"More or less."

"Well, there-there are better places to stay than a library," she stuttered. "I can give you the address for a shelter. Would you like that…_Sir?_"

"No. I will decline." His tone was amused.

"Then that's all I can do for you," she said. "You have your book. I won't tell anyone about that. Please. Go. You can't stay here. Or I'll-"

"Inform everyone that there is a monster in the library? That will do wonders for your reputation."

"Those girls you just—"

"Are gone now and believe me to be an inane performance artist. The best of luck in finding them and convincing them otherwise."

"I'll do what I can. You can't stay here." She started to turn, afraid that he would stop her from leaving.

"Wait," was all he said. A soft groan followed. Christine whirled back around. He had sunk down to one knee beside the chair as though it had pained him to get up. The hood of the cloak was skewed slightly, and she caught a brief flash of his neck and the side of his head.

She couldn't stop the soft gasp that escaped her lips. Finally, Christine understood why he covered himself. Red and purple lesions covered his pale skin. His lacerated head was completely bald. He was not a performance artist or an eccentric. He was very scarred and possibly ill. The knowledge brought upon simultaneous feelings of sympathy and squeamishness.

For the first time, she saw him as pitiable instead of frightening. Homeless. Ill and in pain. Covered in sores. And yet he didn't seem disoriented like the bearded men who slept at the bus stop and smelled of sweat and alcohol. He was very well-spoken and lucid.

Christine took a deep breath and softly asked, "Do you need help? Should I call someone?"

"No. Leave me now. You obviously have no answer to my question." His tone was colder. He quickly readjusted his hood and stood up straight, turning from her.

"There are better places for you to be living than a library. Shelters. Hospitals. Someone can help you. I can look something up for you."

"I said to leave me!" he hoarsely snapped.

She held her hands up in surrender and started to turn around. This was too much. Yet, pausing in the doorway, Christine couldn't stop herself from asking a final set of questions. "Can-can you hear me? In your head? Is it the same for you?"

"No," he replied. "But I heard you sing. And that is enough."

She started to accuse him of following her. Yet, even though he was obviously in pain, the man walked toward her quickly. She pressed herself back into the wall as he reached the entrance to the room. Yellow lights gleamed from beneath the hood. The smell was strong, and Christine held her breath, terrified. He only stared into her eyes for a moment longer, floated past her, and finally disappeared.

The chimes faded, and she was alone. Yet everything had changed.

After sitting at work in a daze for the next three hours, she called and canceled her Friday appointment.

She didn't call the police.

_I can sense the presence of a very decrepit homeless man who seems to have musical talent._ _I think he's following me to my voice lessons. But I can't see him there. I just hear him in my head._

Yeah, right.

And why did she hear him? Was it scientific or supernatural? Did it have to do with music? Or was it because he was sick or dying?

Now Christine knew she wasn't crazy.

Yet that was all she knew.

Now what?

* * *

><p>Nothing could come of this.<p>

_Nothing._

With this knowledge, he stayed away from her for several days. He lay in his coffin, staring at the concrete ceiling with all its ugly cracks and grooves. The thing swam in and out of his head and body with new energy, forming more gashes and cuts on his arms and legs, feeding off his doubts and agony.

When Wednesday arrived, he could not stop himself from returning to the surface to hear her sing. His dry lips twitched upwards as he listened; she was clearly following his instructions regarding her voice. And she would only become better with time. And he knew, by the way she glanced over her shoulders, that Christine was very aware of his presence. She shook her head but said nothing. It was as though she silently gave him permission to breathe.

And the thing knew how much this meant to him. The lights flickered during the lesson. Her vocal instructor muttered something about the building getting too old and why didn't the university invest more in the fine arts?

When the lesson was over, she walked toward a darker corner. She stood there with her arms folded, waiting with a frightened gleam in her blue eyes. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I told you I don't know why I can hear you!"

"I believe you," he softly replied. He tried to find some semblance of his old voice when speaking to her. There was little of it left.

"Then why are you here?"

"To hear _you_."

"_Why?"_

He told her the truth. "It is the only peace of mind I have. I will cease speaking to you. Cease all communication, if you would prefer. But I will listen to you. You cannot deny me this."

"I could quit singing," she softly countered.

"You will not," he replied. "You need music as I do."

She glanced around the empty space. "Where are you?"

"You will not see me again. My appearance and smell understandably repulse you."

She looked down and frowned. "No, it—I…I…" Christine paused and hesitantly asked, "You're very sick, aren't you?"

"Yes." Not a lie.

"With what?"

"You would not be familiar with the condition." Also not a lie.

"Are you…are you dying?"

"Yes." Not quite a lie; it would simply take forty long years before his heart ceased to beat. He told the half-truth to lessen her fear. Let her pity him so long as he could listen to her.

She tilted her head to the side. "I'm sorry. But maybe that's why I can—" She sighed. "I wish you'd go to a hospital."

"They cannot help. And I will not haunt you forever," he reassured them both. _Because nothing could come of this._ "My time is short in more ways than one. I am merely a shadow passing through. Who wishes to hear a brief piece of heaven before descending back into hell. Would you deny this to a dying man?"

He left her there before she could respond. But she would keep singing. And she would allow him to listen for three reasons.

First, he would continue to assist her with her music. This was simple. And the only gift he had to give.

Secondly, she pitied his pathetic physical state. He did not want this. But—it did have the effect of making him less threatening to her.

Finally, she was curious about her odd ability. In later months, he would blame the _thing _for dulling his own inquisitiveness about this. But perhaps it was only he, Erik, who resisted the possibility that he might be enormously dangerous to her. He suppressed these thoughts. Because he did not want to leave her. Not yet. He had to hear her. _Again and again and again._ Selfishness and desperation clouded his judgment.

"_She's delightful, isn't she, Erik?" _The foreign thought slithered into his mind. _"And yet the mere scent of you disgusts her."_

"Leave me," he hissed.

This could go nowhere. But he told himself that he had earned this bit of comfort. He deserved to hear her and be near her for a while longer. Because, barring a miracle discovery, he knew what fate he was inevitably approaching—

_1734, the 5th of September_

_…__.The coach had collapsed in the mud, and we were far from help. One of the horses broke a leg, and Anton was forced to kill the poor beast….I did not want to leave our belongings where thieves might find them, but Anton assured me they would be fine. We walked for at least four hours in the miserable heat and finally came upon a small cottage. The little brown house was deep in the forest and in a terrible state of decay. Weeds and shrubbery covered the walls and roof. A horrible stench filled the air, as though an animal had died. I wanted desperately to leave. Obviously, the home had been long abandoned._

_Being the terribly curious man that he is, Anton went inside and I followed so as not to be alone. The smell of death became much worse. Despair hung over us like a thick, grey fog. Cobwebs covered every inch of the home, and rats scampered across the dirt floor. I again begged Anton to leave, but he wanted to explore….We entered a nearly empty room. The door slammed shut behind us, giving me a great fright. There was only one small, dusty window for light._

_It was in here that we came upon a decomposing corpse that was chained to the back wall by the arms, legs, and waist! He had neither hands nor feet for they had rotted away. He had no nose, and only large black holes for eyes. His tattered shirt and trousers hung from greenish skin stretched over protruding bones. Surely he was long dead!_

_But then-the corpse twitched and stared up at us with its empty eyes! What horror! I screamed and tried to run away, pounding on the locked door. It would not budge. Once poor Anton had overcome his terror, he kindly asked the corpse whether he might need assistance. The corpse, with his toothless mouth, rasped that he most certainly did not need help. He was merely waiting there to die. The corpse then ordered us to leave as a servant of the Devil was also in that house and would take our souls if we did not go! The corpse explained that he must remain chained to the wall to finally kill the Devil's servant. He commanded Anton to give him no food or water so as not to prolong his miserable life. He screamed and sobbed at us to leave. By a miracle of God, Anton found an ax and chopped through the door. We ran until we could run no more._

_Whomever or whatever that poor soul was, I can only hope he has found peace with the Lord by now. I do believe a demon was also in that house. I felt an unspeakable evil in my bones. The memory still sends a chill through me, and I sometimes see that talking corpse in my nightmares. Anton will not speak of it. Still, I felt the need to preserve this memory._

_Perhaps it will help another._

_Gertrude_


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to all who left feedback and favorited! These next couple of chapters will be shorter and sweeter. And then we'll start approaching the halfway climax.

**Read and Review!**

Did she tell anyone else?

_No._

At least, not yet. Not until she could prove anything. Or unless she felt threatened enough to run away. No one would believe her. Or, especially in Raoul's case, they would become overly concerned. Raoul would want to get the police involved, and the authorities would think this was all a giant joke.

Christine wanted calm and time to think things through. While the homeless shadow man's interest in her was disturbing, this whole thing had started because of her weird ability. If she hadn't sensed him and followed him around the library, he never would have noticed her. They were now intertwined for more than one reason, and she desperately wanted answers.

Over the next week, she only heard the chimes during her vocal lessons. The bells in her head seemed to change in pitch and volume with her voice, rising and falling together and creating an eerie harmony. Afterwards, she'd spoken to _him _and demanded to know why he was following her. The man was dying and wanted to hear her sing. She'd had no response to that.

So Christine spent her free time researching supernatural connections on the Internet. Tons of people claimed that they could speak with the dead and help others reach their deceased loves ones. Some said they could read minds or predict the future by using palm readings or tarot cards. There were also a few anecdotes of people having psychic connections with friends or lovers—intense dreams of them and strong sensitivity to their feelings. Still, Christine couldn't find another account of what was happening to her. Sensing someone she had never met before? Hearing them in the form of chimes? Still, there were so many descriptions of psychic connections that she felt slightly less odd.

Maybe the world was just a little weirder than she'd ever imagined.

Christine didn't hear the chimes over the weekend. Raoul took her ice skating at an indoor rink on Saturday, and that allowed her to focus on something more normal. So far, skating was the only physical activity where she was better than Raoul, mostly due to living near a cheap rink when she was a child. "Time to go skating before you knock the house down," her father would say when she was a kid with far too much energy.

Christine glided backwards as Raoul tried to keep his balance. "Yeah. Keep laughing," he said with good humor as she smirked. "Just wait till we play tennis again. See if I show any mercy."

"Aw. Come on," she replied. "Outside of this, I can barely do anything." She increased her speed and inhaled, enjoying the rush of adrenaline and the cold against her face. Her stress dissipated slightly. After speeding once around the circle, she returned to Raoul's side. They skated at a slower pace, hand-in-hand.

"You seem like you're doing a little better," he commented during a break as they both rubbed their sore calves. "Did you speak to someone? A counselor, I mean?"

"No. I, uh, made an appointment and then cancelled it."

He sharply glanced up. "Why?"

"I'm okay right now."

"But it might have helped."

"Raoul."

"Sorry. You're right. It's completely up to you. So, uh…this thing you've been seeing? Do you still think it's real?"

She hesitated and then formed a creative lie. "I think I did see someone originally. Like a homeless person. But then I freaked out and started over exaggerating it. Nerves or anxiety. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah. Definitely. The place you work can be a little creepy. All those old buildings. I hope you can stop working there when it's dark. Don't worry about the money."

"We'll see. I'm okay right now."

When they left the rink and stopped for a burger, she slowly brought up another topic, hoping he wouldn't be able to read through the lines. The late summer sun was bright, and the world seemed less confusing.

"Raoul, do you believe in supernatural things?" She asked the question with an upbeat tone.

"Like what? Aliens and ghosts?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Uh, I've never really seen or heard anything that made me believe in them. But I have relatives who do. Why?"

"What about psychics and mediums?"

He laughed. "Eh. I think that stuff is probably a scam. Like those hotlines? Jupiter is lining up with Venus so watch out for bad news in your love life? At least I get to be the ram."

"Aries," she said with a chuckle. "I'm the fish. Pisces." She paused and ate a French fry. "But don't you think some of it might be real? Like special abilities?"

"I don't know. I—Where is all this coming from?"

"Nothing. Just wondering."

That Sunday, during one of their beloved coffee house meetings, Meg was a little more open. "Like reincarnation?" she immediately asked when Christine questioned her about supernatural experiences. "Sometimes I think I was a flamingo in another life."

Christine blinked twice. "A flamingo?"

"Yeah. Just a vibe I get when I'm dancing. I feel like I should be standing on one leg in the water. I feel this warm breeze against me. And I know, if there's reincarnation, I was some kind of bird near the sea."

"Yeah…. Do you believe in psychics and mediums?"

"Um, maybe," Meg replied. "One time I got a really bad feeling on a bus. And then it broke down. Sometimes stuff like that happens."

It wasn't quite what Christine was looking for. But maybe Meg would be a little more open to the supernatural.

Late Sunday afternoon, she went on one last weekend adventure. Christine took the bus to a nursing home, stood outside of the two-story brick building for a moment, and then walked inside. Flowery-scented air freshener greeted her. The entryway had a wooden front desk and then a room with couches and armchairs where family members could greet their elderly relatives. A hunched over woman with white hair shuffled by with her silver walker, her gaze on the ground. An elderly man in a wheelchair nodded and smiled at her from the side of the room, his thin framed hidden by a thick blue bathrobe. Christine gently smiled back. Yet she heard no chimes. And surely there had to be dying people here; this was the final stop for most of these souls. Yet she had no connection to any of them.

So what made the shadow man so special? With a sigh, she left the nursing home and returned to her apartment, pulling a blanket tightly around her as she turned on the television and became lost in her thoughts.

She briefly heard the chimes on Monday afternoon at work. Christine said nothing to encourage or deter him, only keeping an eye over her shoulder for unexpected visitors. Again at work, she found a note on Tuesday with further instructions regarding her singing. She also got her homework back with a comment from the instructor. _Really interesting and brilliant way of going about this. Do you do a lot of composing? But I think your handwriting suffered during the creative process! No one's perfect, though. A+_.

At her vocal lesson, she again followed the cloaked man's directions as the chimes rang in her head. Ian praised her, his dark brown eyes lit up with excitement. Her voice was so much more encompassing, he said. It filled the entire room! As Christine sang, she again wondered if the connection had to do with music. She'd been musical throughout her youth, taking a couple years of violin and piano lessons before finally deciding that singing was her true passion. The shadow man was obviously talented. Was that the origination of this strangeness?

After work on Thursday evening, she found an empty reading room and sat at the table. The chimes approached, slowly and hesitantly. "Hello," she said as though this were all entirely normal. Her heart beat quickened; she nervously folded her hands.

"You should sing something far more advanced for your recital," stated the scratchy voice.

She squinted. "Why?"

"You are far better than you pretend to be."

"I sing for fun. I mean, your advice has been really helpful. But I'll never be a great singer."

"You could be."

"I don't like having a lot of people watching me," she admitted.

"That is ridiculous. You have nothing to hide."

"This isn't your business," she said, uncomfortably shifting. "Maybe you shouldn't listen to me sing anymore, and then you won't worry about it."

"You cannot stop me from listening."

She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Aren't you going to come out?"

"I told you. I will not upset you with my disgusting physical presence. I only want to listen to you."

"It won't upset me. It's not your fault that you're sick." He said nothing to this. "I've been looking into why I can hear you. Let's face it. That's pretty strange." Still, he was silent. "So I've narrowed it down to two reasons. Either it's because you're…not well. Or it's music. I think it's the latter, though. I went to a nursing home and couldn't hear anything in my head. There have to be very ill people in there, right?" No reply. "Why do you think I can hear you?"

"I do not know."

"Doesn't it seem creepy to you?"

"No."

"Why?" she asked.

A pause and then he softly laughed. "You are asking me if I think _you _are creepy?"

"Well, you're sick and-and homeless. But those things are…I mean they're normal problems. Not _normal _but not abnormal. Not supernatural." She sounded ridiculous. "What's your name?"

"These days? Quasimodo seems appropriate, doesn't it?"

"No, it's not. Please tell me. You know mine."

"Erik."

"Erik." The chimes seemed to speed up when she said his name aloud. "Where are you from?"

"Everywhere. Nowhere."

"But you must have had a home at some point. Have you been homeless for a long time?"

"Decades."

"I'm sorry. Have you-"

"Dear girl. I am not here for you to pity me or inquire about my life history. I am here to assist you, if you would like. With your voice and your studies. Before my time expires. Your voice is marvelous. I can make it even more incredible."

"I don't know," she murmured, twiddling her thumbs and glancing down. "This is all so weird. You. Me and what's in my head. Sometimes I wish it would stop so everything could be normal again."

"Then I will not speak to you. If you only allow me to listen, that will also be adequate. I only need that." He kept his voice steady, but she thought she heard the slightest of trembles.

"Why do you care so much about that?" Christine softly asked. "About my singing?"

"You have a beautiful voice. That is all. I have never heard anything like it. As I said, it is a bit of peace. Before…." His voice tapered off. She quickly swallowed and wiped a tear away. "I have upset you?"

"No." She shook her head. "You just…you sound like my father. You remind me of him actually. A love of music. Wandering from place to place. A nomad. He only settled down because he-well, he thought he found someone to love. And then he had to take care of me. Otherwise, I think he would have kept traveling. You remind me of all that. And then, when he got sick, he'd ask me to sing for him sometimes." She looked up and wiped another tear away. "That must be why I have this connection with you. Now that I think about it. That has to be it, Erik. There's no other explanation, right?"

"I suppose not."

She placed her face into her hands for a moment and composed herself. Her voice had given her father peace before death. Was that her duty now? Was that the purpose of all this strangeness? It seemed terribly depressing. To use her voice as comfort for the dying? And yet she didn't ask him to go away again. The chimes tingled softly, a reminder that the dying homeless man, Erik, was not necessarily the stranger of them both.

"Well," she whispered, looking up. "If you're here, you might as well help me with my homework."

* * *

><p>"If you're here, you might as well help me with my homework."<p>

With those words, she allowed him to stay. With those words, she gave him the gift of her company.

Hidden in the shadows, he helped with her questions, theory and composition. She paused at one point and asked, "Do you play instruments, Erik?"

It had been so very long since he'd heard another human being say his name. "I did."

"Which ones?"

"I sampled many. The violin was the easiest to transport from place to place; I played it often. I have frequently indulged in the piano when one was available to me."

"Those were my instruments, too. What's your favorite type of music?"

"Nothing current. Primarily instrumental. Not like that ridiculous song you had on your phone. If it could even be labeled a song. More like felines screeching."

She laughed at his gentle teasing. "I like some current songs, especially when I'm in certain moods. That's why I went into musical therapy. I think music can help people get better. It all makes sense now…." She looked down at her work. "Will you look this over for me? I think I've got it. But—"

"Of course. Leave it."

She slowly stood and slid on her blue sweater. Her eyes frequently glanced from side to side as though she expected to suddenly see him beside her. The air in the library was colder; he did not know if this had to do with his presence. He did not want to know. "You _can_ come out, Erik. I'm sorry if I didn't react well."

"I prefer this arrangement." While he could stand her pity, he did not want her to stare at him as though he were the most pathetic creature on earth. Even if he was.

She said "goodbye" and departed, her papers still resting on the table. When she was gone and the room was dark, he emerged. She had also left him two twenties. He nearly rolled his eyes.

How ridiculous. He had once been a symbol of power and fear. Men had fallen to their knees in his presence throughout some of the oldest cities on Earth, Baghdad and Tehran and Cairo. And now he was shuffling along like an elderly man, hunched over and being offered charity by a frightened girl. A girl with the voice of an angel.

He stared down at the currency. Money couldn't help or save him. But he took it so that some undeserving idiot did not get their hands on her kindness. Perhaps he would find some use for it.

In the late evening, as he returned to his temporary residence, he passed a building with reflective glass doors. A glimpse of himself. A reminder. The physical pain did make him lean over like a hunchback. Once beneath the ground, he removed his gloves and cloak. The open sores on his hands caused the leather to stick to his skin. _Disgusting._

A memory returned. The vile antidote to his sickness. His other possible fate.

Alexander.

"_I find you amusing, Erik. I fixed that little problem around sixty years ago, mainly just to get a woman to let me between her thighs. It was one of the first things I did. Building up power took much more time. I wasn't born to be a manipulator. Or a killer. Or a natural leader. Yet you're the opposite. Power has come easily to you. People are underneath your thumb before they realize it." A pause. "And yet you haven't repaired that little problem." He gestured to his own face. "Why?"_

"_I do not know how to fix this."_

"_Yes, you do, Erik. You've always known."_ _Alexander reached forward and ripped the black mask off. "Look at you! You're an ugly mess, and it only makes the rest of your work that much harder. Your transition is nearly complete. Except for that. You've already done the hard part."_

"_I do not know how—"_

"_Yes, you do."_

"_Find the next," _he _finally whispered. "I must find the next one. That is how I fix it." The truth finally found its way to his consciousness. Alexander was correct; he had always known._

"_Exactly." Alexander grinned. Despite his handsome face…despite the fact that he was nearly eighty and had the appearance of a thirty-year-old, there was something very ugly about the man. Especially regarding his smile. It was cold and unnatural, as were his very reflective black eyes. "It won't be too hard. There are a lot of despairing people in the world these days." He inhaled. "I can always smell the terror in the air. The utter desperation of humanity."_

_He_ tore himself from the memory.

It was all a lie anyway. Alexander had no longer been human. To completely please the thing was to _become_ the thing. The other fate was utter surrender. Non-existence.

If he followed that specific path, _he_ would no longer exist—no longer even desire her. The thing was not capable of love. Or music. Or beauty.

But it was thoughts of a middle ground between both fates that began to drive him insane—of letting _it_ win just enough to have her.

_No, no, no. _He clutched his head, not knowing which thoughts were his own. He had fought for so long, endured physical pain and mental anguish for the sole purpose of defeating the thing. And now it was to be all undone by a female? By Christine Daae. Even the thought of her name sent shivers down his decrepit body. He could not tear himself away from her.

He continued to write her notes with advice and to listen to her every Wednesday. Once a week, he came to the reading room and assisted her with homework. And basked in her wondrous company. If she had been unable to sense him, he likely would have shadowed her everywhere and completely lost his mind. Her strange gift placed some boundaries on a rapidly deteriorating situation.

October arrived. The leaves changed colors and fell. And he continued to disintegrate as her voice continued to thrive. Yet he stood there for hours every week in agony, listening to her sing or speaking to her.

"Thank you for all your help," she said one evening. "This semester has been easier. For a while, I thought it was going to be horrible. But it hasn't been."

"Do not think on it."

"I've been meaning to ask you. Why did you want that book so much? That's what started all this."

He twitched. "I merely have an interest in very old books. A hobby of mine."

"Can you actually understand what it says?"

If he said 'yes,' it would lead to a whole set of questions that he could not answer. Not without ruining everything. "Very little of it."

"Oh." She started to stand up and gather her things. "I still wish you'd come out and let me help you. Or let me find someone else who could help. I haven't told anyone about you."

"Do not. They will think you insane."

"Not if you talk to them or let them see you," she insisted.

"I will never do that."

"But maybe someone could help-"

"Stop attempting to give me that sort of help! It does not _help_! Do you understand?! Cease with it!" She flinched back, and he could tell he had hurt her. And it was a terrible feeling. "Forgive me," he murmured. "I simply—Simply _stop._ Tell no one of me or of this. Ever. They cannot help."

"All right." She folded her arms against her chest, her fingers squeezing at the silky material of a yellow blouse that matched her hair. After a moment in silence, she said, "My recital is in November. I'm nervous about the piece you chose."

"I will help with this," he replied, thankful she had pulled the conversation away from him. "You will be fine."

"The notes your give me help. Ian is really, really good. But…I think you might be better." She laughed.

"I _am _better," he replied. She laughed again. And then she left.

She'd forgotten her sweater. It hung on the back of the chair like a blue ghost until he grabbed it. And took it. As he limped home, he buried his masked face into the cotton material.

Suddenly, the sweater began to tightly wrap itself around his cheeks and head as though attempting to smother him. Of course, he could not die, but the fabric still squeezed his skull to the point of pain. The sleeves stretched and wrapped around his neck in a morbid embrace. He struggled, fighting with the sweater—or rather the thing for at least a minute. _It_ was torturing him.

Finally, he released the sweater's grip, but the mask came off with it, baring his face to the cold air. He grabbed the piece of black leather before it could hit the ground. He stood there, his arms limply hanging at his sides, the mask in one hand and the sweater in the other. Hidden in the shadows and by the cloak, he returned underground.

He could sense the thing laughing at him. He did not care.

He wanted to touch her. And smell her hair. Yet this would do for the night.

When he climbed into the coffin, he still clung to the sweater and buried his ugly face into its softness and female scent.

A blue thread unraveled and tickled his cheek.

And he nearly unraveled along with it.


	10. Chapter 10

Enjoy the softer and sweeter moments of this chapter. Because…yeah….

**Thank you for all your kind and wonderful comments! Enjoy and review!**

A part of her was quietly waiting for all of this to culminate with something important. And then the other part of her had settled into a strange routine over the next weeks. She had never had such a strong musical connection with anyone, and that wasn't even including the mind chimes.

Sometimes he sounded so weak that Christine worried he would suddenly die. She cared.

Then again, what if he were meant to die soon? What if that were the purpose of all this? Again, she combed through books and the Internet for some type of magic answer. Nothing helped. By accident, she came across one passage in an older leather book that was slightly disturbing.

"There are a select few that display sensitivity to the darkness and presence of other worldly beings. This can manifest in ways such as seeing shadows, sounds in the mind, temperature changes, or simply an inexplicable feeling that one is not alone."

One cold October evening, Christine sat in the reading room and waited for him to arrive. She supposed this would all have to resolve itself either after her recital or at the end of the semester.

"You wished me to have more direct interaction with your singing?" His voice cut into her ponderings.

"I thought it might be helpful," she replied, hoping she hadn't gotten herself into something too strange.

"Will you come with me to another location?" There was a hesitance in his tone.

"Why?"

"I do not think your employer will appreciate a violin in their library, do you?"

Her eyes widened, and her heart jumped. "You mean you'll accompany me?"

"Yes. If you wish."

"All right. Yes. That would be great." She slowly rose and slipped on her pink jacket. Vaguely, Christine wondered what had happened to her blue sweater. Without a word, she shut the door to the reading room, ran downstairs, and then headed outside. The sun had nearly set, and a frigid wind brushed against her cheeks. The insects had all died, and there were only faint voices and laughter in the distance.

She followed the chimes as they led her to the main music building. A few lights in the hallway remained on, but she was alone. Christine shivered as the chimes led her into a room; she flipped on a single light. A soft glow cast shadows across the space, illuminating a piano and metal cabinet. She started to turn on another light, but he said, "Do not. That is enough."

"Okay." Her hand fell down to her side, and she nervously waited.

"Everyone will merely think you are here for a late lesson," he explained. "I considered remaining outside. But someone might have heard, and the cold is not good for your voice."

"No. This is fine." She glanced around. "Where are you?"

"That does not matter."

She finally saw the faint outline of a moving shape in the darkened corner. Still, she respected his space and distance, remaining in the middle of the room. Before she could ask what they would be doing, he began to play a violin. The cloaked figure seemed to sway with the sound as Christine stood frozen in shock. The chimes in her head and her pulse sped up with the smooth melody, and her heart leaped into her throat.

Stopping, he asked, "Are you ready to begin?"

"Erik, I never knew you could play like that. I never knew anyone could play like that." He said nothing. "Yes, I'm ready." But she still felt upset over the fact that someone with so much talent was left to die miserably in the cold.

He led her through a very complicated set of warm-ups and then through her new song, one of Juliet's arias from Gounod's opera. It seemed like, at every note, he would pause and correct her. Posture. Or how wide she opened her mouth and breathed as he made every attempt to perfect her resonance and volume. Sometimes she became angry at his bluntness and constant criticism. But, in the end, he was making her a better singer. Maybe hurt feelings were the price of perfection. A small price, really.

Finally, the music stopped. The shadow became very still, and she saw a flicker of the yellow eyes, always watching her. "I suppose that is enough for tonight."

"Erik," she whispered. "That was amazing."

"Such a modest girl," he teased.

"No, no." She laughed. "The whole thing. Especially your playing. I've never heard anything like it."

"No one is completely useless."

"Is there anything I can get for you?" she softly asked. "Food? Clothes? A hotel room even?"

"No. I have all I need."

"But you're helping me. Don't you want _anything _in return?" He didn't answer. She wanted to argue with him but stopped herself. This conversation always ended the same way. "Well, thank you. For this."

"We will do this again before you recital," he stated. And then the chimes began to fade as he disappeared. Yet she sensed him continuing to watch her as she left the music building and walked to her bus, making certain she was safe. He seemed too weak and ill to harm a mouse. And yet….

And yet she always had this feeling deep in her subconscious that he was not so harmless. It was why she kept a distance. It was why she would sometimes sit up during the middle of the night and look around her room. And shudder.

Just a feeling.

Her apartment was becoming very messy. The two boxes still sat unpacked in a corner. Dishes were stacked in the sink, and books and papers were spread out across the coffee table. A layer of dust had collected on the furniture, and the carpet had an unsightly amount of crumbs. Her days were spent consumed by music, researching her psychic ability, and thinking about very strange things. Schoolwork received the remainder of her attention. Or Raoul when they both had enough free time. So housework suffered.

"Are you sure you want to come over?" she asked Meg on a Friday evening. "I can straighten up some things. But I doubt it's going to get that much better."

"It can't be that bad," Meg had replied. "See you in a few!"

Yet when Meg arrived, she immediately started to laugh. "Yikes! It did get kind of bad. Messy Christine."

"I warned you. It's even worse than usual. I'm praying Raoul doesn't want to stop by."

"Here. I'll help you out a bit." As Meg sorted through some school papers and placed them into a neater pile, she glanced up. "So. Is everything okay? You have seemed kind of distracted."

"I'm just really focused on my music." She said the sentence a little too fast.

"Oh. That's cool then."

"How's your semester going?"

"Busy. Kind of hard. I'm still not sure academia was the way to go. I sort of miss New York, but we know how well that went." Meg side-glanced her. "But everything is really okay with you? School is good? Raoul and you are doing well?"

"Yeah. Everything's fine." Yet as Christine dusted off her television with a damp rag, she had a strong urge to finally tell someone. Raoul wasn't the right person; he'd just get upset. But Meg was open-minded. She'd spent time by herself in the city and had interacted with a variety of artists and people on the fringe of society. And Christine only wanted to give her enough information to lessen the burden.

"You have to promise me you won't tell anyone this," she began, sitting on the couch. She plopped the rag on the table. The apartment was already looking a little better.

"Ooh! Secrets! I knew something was going on with you." Meg practically bounced up and down. She took a quick seat next to Christine "I promise! What's up?"

"I've been taking singing lessons with someone. I mean, besides my lesson with Ian. I have another music teacher."

"Really? Who?"

"This…man. That I met."

Meg blinked. "A man? Like an older man?"

"Oh, yes," Christine murmured. "He has to be at least sixty or seventy or older, I think."

"Oh. So this isn't like…. I almost thought you were saying—"

"No! I wouldn't cheat on Raoul. No, it's not like that. He's like this old, very sick but very talented…man."

"Very sick how?"

"He's dying of something. I don't know what. But he's probably the most talented person I've ever met. He knows everything in the world about music. And he's been helping me progress so much with my singing."

"How did you get involved with him?"

"I ran into him in the library. I'm not sure that he has much of a home."

Meg frowned and studied her. "You just meet with him, and he helps you sing?"

"It was a little more complicated than that. We had some other things in common. And I know it's kind of weird. That's why I wanted to tell someone else. But you have to promise not to tell anyone. Please."

"I won't. But let me know right away if you ever think you're in danger."

"He's not dangerous," Christine insisted. "The poor man can barely walk. I'm afraid that he's going to fall over dead right in front of me."

"That is very sad."

"Yeah. I really just want to help him. But he won't let me. I wonder if I could ever convince him to find hospice care or something. Like my dad had. But he never wants my help."

Meg shrugged and seemed a little uncomfortable. "Some people don't want to go to nursing homes or places like that. My grandpa didn't; he wanted to die in his home."

"Sometimes I wonder why he's helping me at all. He should be in bed and resting."

"Maybe he just likes helping you." She paused. "But, still, be really careful. Make sure he doesn't want anything weird from you, right?"

"Like what?"

Meg patted her arm. "Christine, I know you can be kind of clueless. But you're not that bad. He is a man."

"Like I said, he can barely walk. Don't make this creepy!"

"All right. I get it. Have you told Raoul?"

"Of course not."

Meg chuckled. "Yeah. He'd get the cops."

"And that's the last thing I need. More silly panic." Christine sighed. "Poor Erik."

"Is that his name?"

"Yes. Remember. No telling anyone about this."

"I won't." Meg couldn't help but add one more, "Please be careful."

Christine supposed it was all becoming too weird. She couldn't carry on like this forever, talking to shadows and following head chimes to secret places. Despite the wondrousness of the music, this wasn't normal or exactly sane. The best way that this could all end, in her mind, was Erik agreeing to help. She sincerely doubted that he had insurance, and so the cost of decent end-of-life care programs seemed impossibly high for someone with her salary and debt. But after their next lesson, she became even more determined to make it happen.

She joined him again in the same music room for their lesson, slowly slipping off her heavier coat and placing it and her purse by the door. "Hello, Erik," she greeted the chimes.

"Christine." His voice had grown both scratchier and gentler during their time together. Except for his criticism, he was generally kind to her.

"Three weeks to go," she murmured.

"And you are nearly ready."

They warmed up, and she began to sing, loosing herself in the melody as it swept her off the ground. She was quickly shocked back to the earth. Toward the beginning, the violin suddenly squealed, and the awful sound was followed by a soft groan of pain. Without even thinking about it, she followed the chimes to the corner and knelt beside the fallen cloaked shadow.

"Erik?"

"I am fine."

"No, you're not. You're not fine! Why in God's name won't you let anyone help you? It's so frustrating!" She bit back tears.

The polished violin was on the carpeted floor beside the bow. His black gloved hands were curled into fists.

"_Do not,"_ he nearly hissed as she took one hand. Yet he didn't pull away from her. She started to remove the glove, pausing in case it would anger him too much. But, for some reason, he allowed her to go forward. She held back a gasp and managed to remain calm despite the horribleness.

His white, bony hands were covered in bleeding sores. Some had white liquid oozing out of them. It was as though someone had stabbed and burned his skin all at once, distorting the flesh beyond recognition. His fingers seemed permanently curled, and his little finger was yellowed to the point that it looked as though it might actually rot off. She swallowed back a sick feeling.

"You shouldn't be playing the violin," she murmured as she realized how much pain it must cause him.

"I wished to play with your voice." He refused to look at her, his gaze straight ahead. "It was all I wished to do. Combine our efforts, you see."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"It does not matter. Pain is easily ignored for the sake of art. And perfection. And...you."

She allowed his hand to rest on top of hers, palms touching - feeling sad, frightened, and helpless. "Erik," she began. "I don't understand why you don't think you deserve some comfort at this time. But you do. People deserve that. And you do…."

He finally tore his hand away. She leaned back onto the carpet, still cautious of him. "You don't understand!" he snapped. "So stay silent about it!"

"Then tell me. Tell me so I understand."

"It could be different." His voice was a whisper.

"What could be different?" she asked, glancing up. The air suddenly seemed colder around her, almost as though a pair of frigid arms had wrapped themselves around her shoulders from behind. Christine looked around and shivered. A gust of air blew some strands of hair out of place and into her eyes. She had the strangest feeling that they weren't alone in the room. She shook her head and forced the eerie sensation away. "_What _could be different?"

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing could ever be, could it?" He rose, and she stood up beside him. They didn't look at each other.

"Will you still be here after my recital?" she softly asked. "I don't know if I can take lessons in the spring. Not with Ian at least. And my schedule is already going to be busy."

She didn't know what she wanted his answer to be. And was therefore more confused when he asked, "Do you want Erik to still be near?"

She hesitated. "You've really helped me. I wish you'd let me help you. If…if you want to still give me lessons, I could make time. But—"

"But what?" he whispered.

"But, Erik, surely you don't want to spend your last months like this. Homeless and hiding. Giving me lessons while you're in pain."

"What if I do?' he countered. "What if I have never been happier?"

_Then I feel so sorry for you._ Christine didn't say it aloud, but she thought it. Why didn't he have family or other friends during his last sad months on earth? The flicker of yellow gazed at her beneath the cloak. And it almost looked like he _did_ want something from her.

"Goodnight, Christine. Goodnight," he said, stepping backward. "Perhaps we will return to our reading room. Yes. Yes, I think that is best. You do not need any more pathetic nights with this ridiculousness."

"Erik—"

But he departed, and she was left confused.

Lately, she spent ninety-five percent of her life confused.

It was starting to affect her relationship a bit. Raoul had been busy with classes and projects, and so Christine had doubted that he'd noticed her distance. But he did.

They were at his friend's Halloween party. It was fairly tame, people drinking and chatting in small groups as "Monster Mash" played in the background. She'd put on a pink Jeannie costume that she'd worn previous years. Occasionally people would tell her that she looked like a young Barbara Eden, and so Christine ran with it whenever she needed a quick costume. She managed to wear it so that her bare stomach wasn't showing the entire evening. "Again?" Raoul asked when he first saw her. "Does that mean you're going to call me Master?"

She whacked him on the shoulder. "Not unless you're going as an astronaut. Which you're not!"

Raoul was a pirate, complete with an eye patch, black boots, and a red bandana. He even had a fake hook for a hand and was having a difficult time functioning with it. "It really makes me appreciate having two hands," he'd stated as he nearly spilled his glass of wine. She was enjoying the carefree evening and trying to ignore the worries in the back of her mind.

They'd walked around and chitchatted with a dinosaur, a vampire couple, the Clintons, and a flying turtle. Alone at last in a corner, Raoul asked, "Are you having a good time?"

"Yeah. It's nice to get out."

"Good. I'm glad. You've seemed kind of distracted lately. I was really glad you could come tonight. I've felt kind of distant from you."

"Just busy with school," she replied, taking a sip from a plastic red cup. "And you've been busy, too, Mr. MBA."

"I'm sorr—"

"No, no. Don't be, Raoul. We've both had lots going on. It's okay. It happens."

"Have you thought about moving in together? Then we'd see each other all the time."

"Still definitely thinking about it." That decision was going to have to come after a whole host of others.

Bored, they left the party early and climbed into his car. They kissed for a while, and then he eagerly moved to her face and neck. She hummed softly, enjoying his warmth. Since she'd stopped freaking out about library ghosts, her boyfriend was treating her like a grown woman again. She felt trapped between the normal and the abnormal, wanting pieces of both yet fearing they would eventually collide.

He kissed her temple one last time and drew back, smiling at her. He studied her, and the smile faded.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know. It's hard to explain. You've just seem…sadder or something."

"I'm not sad. I've had a great night."

"But I mean besides tonight. You've seemed different this semester. Does it have to do with what happened earlier? Are you seeing things? Do you feel like you're not safe?"

"No. It's…. I-I have a friend who is dying. That's what's wrong." It seemed like an innocuous way to explain it. She was tired of outright lying.

"I'm sorry," he replied. "Who?"

"A musician at the university. He's helped me a lot." She'd become really good at half-truths.

"Oh. That's too bad. Is he sick or old?"

"Both, I think." She hesitated and looked straight ahead. "I hate asking you for this. It's not your problem. But I get really upset because he's practically impoverished. And I don't have much to give him. So even the occasional twenty would help." She paused then added. "Like I said, I feel bad for asking-"

"Christine." He leaned over and put an arm around her. "You know, if you asked me for five thousand dollars shoes, I'd get them for you. I mean, I love you because you're _not _like that. You don't care about expensive designer stuff like some girls do. And now the one thing you want money for is completely unselfish? Yeah. Just let me know."

"Thank you." She started to cry.

He embraced her. "Hey. It's okay. What's wrong?"

She shook her head into his shoulder, getting his white ruffled shirt damp. "It's just been a really, really strange semester."

"I know it has."

They hugged for a while, letting the heater blow over them. "Are you coming to my recital?" she asked, glancing up with a smile.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Thanks. I hope it's not a complete disaster."

He laughed. "I'm sure you'll be awesome."

She was very eager to arrive at the date of her performance. She somehow sensed its importance. She desired resolution and an answer to all of this.

Erik soon left her a note at work requesting that they have another reading room meeting. She knew that he didn't want her to see him in pain again. He clearly despised his own vulnerability. Christine brought him a green felt blanket, a ham and cheese sandwich in a baggie, and some high quality skin cream that she hoped would heal his dry and cracked hands. He said nothing as she placed her gifts on the center of the table and then sat down. The chimes rang in her mind.

"I've never been so excited and nervous about a recital before." She squeezed her fingers together.

"It is certain to be your best."

That was all he said. She waited for about ten seconds for him to continue. "Why'd you ask me here tonight, Erik? Did you want to tell me something?"

A pause. "No. I merely wished to see you again before your performance. That is all. Your company."

She looked down and smiled. "Well, since I'm here, tell me more about yourself. Anything. Your family. What were your parents like?"

"This again? I told you that my life is not worth asking about." He audibly sighed. "I did not know them."

"Oh. I'm sorry. My mother left when I was very young. So I really didn't know her."

"I cannot imagine anyone leaving you," he softly replied.

"Where did you grow up?" she asked.

"I constantly moved from place to place. Foster homes. Orphanages. The street. It was my choice. To keep moving. You need not pity my decisions."

She couldn't imagine a small child moving from place to place a on his own. Still, Christine didn't delve into it. "And when you grew up?"

"I went overseas," he replied. "Multiple countries."

"And you were homeless?"

A pause. "Yes. Always homeless. But not always like this. There was a time when I owned more ridiculous possessions than you can imagine."

She squinted. "Really? What happened to it all?"

"I did not want it any longer. Do not worry about these matters. They were long ago. Think only of your music and the performance."

At least she'd gotten a little out of him. She was still as confused as ever. "You'll come see me sing?" she asked.

"I would not miss it for the world."

"And I'll speak to you afterwards? You can tell me if I did everything right?"

"Yes. Of course. I will be there."

"Thank you."

He gave her a few more tips for her voice, addressing her main problem areas. And then he said, "Goodnight, my dear. You will be the brightest star."

She would always remember him saying that.

Because it was the last time Christine ever heard that scratchy, sickly, pained voice.

"Goodnight," she replied with a soft smile. "Take care, Erik."

She didn't see him again before her big night. Sometimes she would hear chimes when she was singing with Ian or occasionally at work. But Erik seemed to want to maintain a distance. He was getting worse and worse, more decrepit and ill with each day that passed. Even in her excitement about the recital, she felt the constant pull of sadness on her tired heart.

Everything was kind of perfect when that evening arrived. Her voice. Her grades. Raoul was there. She saw him come in and take a seat near the front of the auditorium, looking incredibly handsome in a black tweed coat, white dress shirt, and tie. His blond hair was slightly windblown, and his face was a little red from the cold. She heard chimes and knew that Erik was nearby as well. She smiled to herself, nervously playing with a strand of her longer hair. She'd decided to start growing it out again.

She wore a long chiffon lavender dress and silver hoop earrings. Half her hair was swept up into a bun while the rest dangled loosely beside her cheeks. She'd never felt this glamorous. Christine peeked through the curtain. The audience wasn't huge, but it was still big enough to give her goose bumps and make her heart pound. The ceilings were high, and she knew her voice would need to be very strong to fill the enormous room. And she was performing last that night, so she'd be the most memorable. Unless everyone had gotten bored by then and left.

A pianist and then a violinist played first. A smaller orchestra followed. And then the jazz choir. A male a cappella group sang—they were very funny and woke the audience up a bit. By the time everyone else was finished, Christine felt entirely intimidated. Plus the audience was getting a little antsy and ready to head home. Raoul gave her an encouraging smile and nod, and the chimes rang in her mind. _Here we go…._

The lights were bright as she climbed up there, her high heels clicking lightly on the wood. She stared into the audience for a moment, breathing deeply. And then she sang her heart out that night. It felt like no performance before, beyond anything she'd ever done. Her confusion and sadness over the last months perhaps added to her passion and voice. When it was over, the audience gave her a standing ovation. She smiled as her chest rose and fell. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead.

As she took her bow and walked off stage, she grabbed the rail to steady herself. After overcoming her dizziness, Christine started to look for Erik to give him her gratitude. And tell him that she'd see him again after the Thanksgiving Break.

"Christine!"

She whirled around at the familiar voice. "Hi there!"

"You were fantastic!" Raoul handed her a large bouquet of red roses as her eyes lit up. Then he grabbed her into his arms and gave her a long kiss.

"Oh, Raoul." Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you!"

"I want to take you out to dinner to celebrate." He grinned. "Anywhere you want. Someplace nice. With great dessert."

"Yeah, definitely," she replied. "I'd love to." They shared another kiss.

"Also, I told my dad about your charitable cause. I think he might help out. He's the one with the big bucks. So…."

"Really?" she whispered. "Thank you. That means so much."

"I love you. You were amazing."

"I love you, too! I-" She glanced behind her. "I'll be right back. Okay? I just need to thank someone. And then we can go."

"Yeah! I'll be right here."

With the roses still in hand, Christine began to turn around and walk toward the back of the building. Most people had filtered out, and so it was easier to find her way in the dim lighting.

But she suddenly noticed the chimes were different. Stranger. Darker and in a lower key. They began to make her head throb.

"Erik?" she asked, her voice shaking. She placed a hand to her right temple.

But now the chimes were quickly fading away. He was heading in the opposite direction. Fleeing. _Running._ Her heart fell. Christine ran toward the glass doors and opened them, the cold air rushing over her bare arms. But it would be impossible to catch him now. The chimes became nothing but a somber and distant echo.

Disoriented, Christine sank to her knees, probably ruining her dress, and stared out into the darkness. "Something's wrong," she murmured. "Something's so wrong."

"Christine?" Raoul came up behind her. "Are you okay? What are you doing out here? It's cold. Who are you looking for?"

"I—"

"What's wrong?" Raoul knelt down beside her.

"He's…he's so upset. And angry."

"Who's angry?"

"I don't understand. I was only trying to help," she whispered. "I don't understand what's happening."

"Maybe you're just tired," he said. "You put a lot of work into tonight." Raoul took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. "Let's get something to eat, okay? You can thank the person later. Maybe they already left."

Nodding, she took Raoul's arm and allowed him to help her back up. She leaned against him as he led her toward his car, glancing back over her shoulder every so often. Yet the chimes were gone. They were alone.

Dinner was wonderful. Delicious Italian food, stuffed shells in a tomato sauce and soft bread sticks. A warm flickering fireplace in the front of the restaurant. Glowing candles. Vases of flowers. Smiling, well-dressed couples at every table. Raoul held her hand and repeatedly told her the performance was amazing. Yet her head felt so strange that she had a difficult time concentrating.

She shivered all night long.

She still felt nervous as she left with Raoul several days later to join his family for Thanksgiving. There were no more chimes…no signs of him.

They prepared to leave, throwing last minute items in their suitcases. Raoul turned on the morning news, looking for a weather report for when they traveled north. She briefly heard the last part of a story as she brushed her hair and put on her seashell earrings.

"—discovered by a man jogging just after eight o'clock . Police have not yet said whether last night's suspicious death is connected with the male victim found two nights ago near the Brown Street apartment complex. According to an official who asked to remain anonymous, the cause of death in that case was asphyxiation. It has not yet been determined whether foul play was involved. We'll keep you updated on this breaking news story. Coming up, a look at the upcoming football games-"

She picked up her suitcase and took a deep breath, quietly telling herself it would all be okay. Maybe Erik had just wanted some time to himself or had finally found a place to comfortably rest. She hoped for the latter. She hoped he'd find peace.

As the November sun streamed down upon them, she and Raoul drove forward down the highway - toward food, family, and warmth.


	11. Chapter 11

Darker chapter warning. Hand at the level of your eyes and all that ;)

**Thanks so much for all your support! Read and review!**

It wasn't that he'd been utterly unaware of the boy's existence.

In her phone, there had been calls and messages directed toward Chagny; _he_ had cared less then. Much less.

Sometimes, during their time together, she'd make an offhand comment that indicated another in her life- _"We went ice skating; I totally won. If you can win at ice skating." A soft laugh and a sparkle of light in her blue eyes._

Yet it had been simpler to ignore all of this when they were alone and immersed in music. The other parts of her life were unimportant. Until they could no longer be ignored.

And were impossible to ignore when so blatantly thrust in his rotting face. She'd been perfect that evening. Every second that he'd spent with her was grandly placed out for the entire world to see. And he remembered every single moment with her—their strange beginnings, her compassionate words, her gifts…and her cradling his disgusting hand as he huddled uselessly on the floor.

Yes, she'd given him endless compassion.

And then she'd given that boy her love.

He did not want her pity while that boy received her kisses. Yet, standing in the shadows, he had angrily and instantly known there was no chance on Earth. Not if circumstances continued as they were. Chagny was physically perfect - youthful and untouched by any of the world's very real nightmares.

He had never wanted to break anyone's neck more than that boy's.

But he fled instead, furious with her and yet aware that there was no way for sweet Christine to know how cruel she had been. She thought of him as a dying invalid. And he had allowed her to go forward with this belief because it made him less threatening to her. It made her stay. And now it was coming back to haunt him.

He tore off the cloak and mask and stared at his reflection in a glass door. He was a monster. He was growing more and more grotesque with every passing day. If she thought he was horrible now, what would she think when he possessed no appendages?

A foreign thought entered his mind-

"_Are you ready to end this ridiculous game, Erik? You put up a good fight. Even I was impressed. But you have nothing without me. And everything with me. Shall I be your friend or your enemy?"_

No chance on Earth.

But perhaps a chance in Hell.

He raced down into his underground dungeon. Clutching his scarred head and falling to his aching knees, he remained in that position for hours upon hours, willing away the ache in the center of his chest. He attempted to curl into himself, his hands and feet and whole being throbbing in agony. And this was to be the rest of his life.

No, _worse_ than this.

And it was simply not fair. As the hours passed and the rage grew, he became more certain of this. He had never asked for some creature to stick to him like some demonic conjoined twin. And if there were any powers on the other side…well, they had certainly done nothing to help him, had they?

At least the darker powers were direct. At least they granted him a choice. If this was the hand he had been dealt, why not play it?

"_Why not, Erik?"_

All he wanted was her. Not power or wealth. Just her.

_Please let me have her. Please let her love me. Please, please, please._

"_Prayers are useless, my friend. You don't want to be useless any longer, do you?"_

No, he did not want to be useless. And the only way to be anything at all for her—

Was to act.

His mind went blank as he ventured back out into the night. He would not think about this. A black ghost, he moved forward, the pain in his feet lessening slightly.

Because _it _knew what he was going to do.

The first was a younger man, probably around the age of twenty, spray-painting a brick wall with white and black letters. His face had stubble, and the whites of his green eyes were reddened. He wore a thick black coat and a red stocking cap.

In the shadows, _he_ watched for a moment. Vandalism or art? It depended on how one was feeling.

"_Are you a painter, Alexander?"_

"_I suppose I used to be. Long ago. Why?"_

"_Music. Will I still be a musician? After…?"_

"_You won't care whether you are, Erik. Don't you understand? Everything that you think means something - music, women, love…it's all so unimportant in the bigger picture."_

"I was just—What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you wearing? Look dude—"

"I am looking. And that is very unfortunate for you tonight. Au revoir."

And, with a simple piece of rope, he strangled the life from the young man. There had never been anything quite like watching the spark of existence fade from a pair of eyes and knowing such power came from his hands.

He could not simply go in search of people who were blatantly harmful to society, murderers and rapists and the like. The thing was not pleased with that. Nor was he forced to slaughter philanthropists and kindly old grandmothers. The average person would do, slightly below or slightly above the mean of morality. The thing was practical.

And murder was the fastest way to get a fix.

He pushed the limp body behind a wall that surrounded an apartment complex. He picked up the metal spray can and finished what little remained of the design. In puffy, ornate letters, the message said: "The End."

How fitting.

Tossing the can aside, he slid off one of his black gloves. His hands had healed, becoming smooth and pale. They would play beautiful music now; he could only imagine the expression of delight on her face when he again picked up the violin. As he walked down the empty sidewalk, his feet no longer throbbed. His gait was smooth and purposeful.

He could also feel _its_ power grow.

"I hate you," he whispered as he returned underground, partially despising himself for giving in.

"_I bet he's kissing her right now. I bet he's fu—"_

"Get out!" he screamed. He curled up into his coffin, less of a corpse but perhaps more of a monster. He pressed her blue sweater into his face and attempted to console himself with that.

But he went back out again a couple nights later. He had unwisely stared at his reflection for far too long, focusing on the scars on his head, temples, and neck. She would never love him like this.

So another person had to die, this time a drunkard stumbling home late on a Friday night, still wearing a blue suit and red tie from his mediocre, middleclass job. The man's brown eyes were still confused as he was strangled to death.

Each one became a bit easier than the last. After the second death, the scars on his head disappeared. He even had the first signs of dark hair on the top of his skull.

He chuckled at this when he first noticed. Hair sprouting up like dandelions!

The thing laughed with him.

The third death was…somewhat unplanned. It was the Monday after the long holiday where idiots sat around a table and stuffed themselves with food—as though they did not do that the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. Students and faculty had begun to filter back onto campus, their eyes bleary and their steps heavy. A heavy snow began to fall as the temperature dropped below freezing. Late in the evening, he went to the library. To simply see if she was near. Even if he did not yet reveal himself to her, he desperately missed her and wanted her closeness.

But she was not there. In fact, no one was. He crept through the shelves on the second floor, searching for even a faint flowery scent of her. Even the familiarity of the location granted him some comfort.

He was careful as he crept through the shadows.

And yet also slightly distracted, so that he did not notice the approach of another.

Or maybe he subconsciously desired that third victim. Because there was something he still desperately wanted back. She would absolutely adore it if he sang to her. The boy could never hope to compete in that area; the idiot likely couldn't even carry a tune.

"Hey? Is someone up here?" asked a male voice. "We closed early. There's a snow storm. You're going to have to go home."

The security guard. Joe Buquet.

"Hello?" A flashlight was raised, illuminating the metal shelves of books. His bearded face was barely visible. "Hello? I know someone's here. Come out. Right now." A note of nervousness entered the man's voice. He began to reach toward his waist. "I'll call the campus police."

_He_ stalked Buquet for a bit, following him between shelves until they were completely concealed. Cat and mouse. The thing suddenly knocked several books off a nearby shelf and onto the floor. Perhaps _it _had wanted to play, too.

Buquet jumped and whirled around at the cacophony.

_He _pounced.

"You should have believed her," he stated into Buquet's ear as his fingers curled around the rope. "She was not the crazy one. I, however, am." As Buquet uttered his last gasps, writhing and twisting and putting up a much better fight than the other two, _he_ spoke to the thing. "Is this what you like? Is this what you wanted? Is this what you wanted?! Is this what-? Oh…."

His voice completely changed as the body of the older security guard finally slumped against him. _He _laughed and then sobbed in relief to finally hear himself again, the rich tenor sound reverberating around the library. Tossing the body aside, he threw off the cloak and departed. The rest of him healed; he only needed the mask now.

He would do what was necessary until she loved him. She _would_ love him. And then he would maintain his appearance at a level that she could tolerate. If that meant strangling a few people every year to appease the goddamned thing - fine. _Fine._ He would play his hand. It was all he had.

He journeyed toward his underground sanctuary, mentally noting that he would have to find a nicer location to bring his angel. Someplace softer and with color and light. Yes, yes.

The door to the basement area automatically opened as he approached.

"_Welcome home, Erik."_

* * *

><p>"Are you guys going to get married soon?"<p>

"Jesus, Mom." Raoul rolled his eyes and shot Christine an apologetic glance. "This isn't the 1950's. People date for more than a month. We're doing great right now as it is."

"He needs to get more established with his career anyway," said Nathan Chagny, pointing an index finger at his youngest son. "Phillip already has some real estate property in the southwest. Fantastic condos. That's where all the Boomers are going to start retiring. Have you read up on that?"

"Did you also notice that Phillip couldn't make it because he's too busy with work?" Raoul retorted.

"That is true," said Mrs. Chagny with a frown. "It can't be healthy to work so much."

"Don't tell the boy that, Nancy."

Mrs. Chagny ignored her husband and turned to Christine. "So what are you doing, dear? What are you studying?"

"Music therapy," she replied, swallowing a mouthful of buttery mashed potatoes. Christine had been enjoying staying invisible and eating the delicious food. Turkey and dressing and mashed orange squash and corn. The pecan pie on the counter looked divine, and every slice of pumpkin pie had a perfect sliver of whipped cream on top. It'd been a while since she'd had time for a good meal.

"What's music therapy?" Nancy inquired. She was a petite blonde woman and shared Raoul's bright blue eyes.

They were all staring at Christine now.

"Um. It's using music for healing purposes. Like stress management. Or pain alleviation."

She expected Mr. Chagny to say something rude, but he only shrugged and declared, "Probably better therapy than all the goddamned meds they put people on. I could stub my pinky toe, and someone would try to give me drugs for it. I could—"

"Dear," said Mrs. Chagny, turning to her husband. "I think your team just scored a touchdown."

"Really?" He hopped up and ran into the living room. "Damn it! It was the other team! Maybe if the refs would do their jobs-"

"Oh. Sorry, honey."

"Ugh," muttered Raoul, shrinking back into his chair.

Christine hid a smile. It was a little awkward, but at least they were a real family. She missed having one—even if it had only been her and her father.

Outside of meals, everyone in the Chagny family seemed to do their own separate thing. Raoul's father was either working, puttering in his garage, or watching television. His mother was on the phone or shopping or darting from room to room with a feather duster. Whenever Nancy saw Christine, she'd wave and say, "Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Fresh towels?"

Christine would always politely reply, "No, thank you." Usually, she tried to stay out of everyone's way and stick by Raoul. She played with the two friendly Australian Shepherds, throwing their rubbers balls and taking them for walks around the well-kept wealthy neighborhood. She and Raoul browsed the nearby city, and Christine had done a little early Christmas shopping before the crowds of Black Friday devoured everything. The worries of earlier remained at the back of her mind. Amongst all this normalcy, the strangeness of the last several months seemed even more unreal.

"You must be ready to get out of here," Raoul said with a shake of his head on Saturday. She'd just eaten a roast pork dinner with the family. Nathan had ranted about his upcoming tax bill until Nancy had distracted everyone with a family photo album—thereby further embarrassing Raoul.

"No. I've had fun."

"Yeah, sure. Right. Want me to leave you with them? My mom always wanted a daughter."

Christine softly laughed. "That's okay. I guess I need to get back and deal with some things."

"Yeah. I have a twenty page paper to write on _Enron._"

Raoul sounded like he was waiting for her to complain about her workload. But, honestly, she wasn't all that concerned about exams and papers. She understood the material.

_He'd_ seen to that.

They drove back home on a cloudy Sunday, and Raoul walked her to the front door. "I had a great holiday. You were the only one who made it great, though. I like that we can relax together. My dad makes me tense sometimes."

"Yeah, I can see that. But I had a good time. Your mom is a great cook."

"Her family used to own a restaurant. That's how she met my dad. She seated him every time he came there to study for his bar exam. And then one day he managed to spill his coffee all over the table. So she came to clean it up. And yeah." He awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

"That's cute!"

"Heh. I guess."

They kissed and parted. And, for the first time in nearly a week, Christine was alone again. She spent the rest of the day unpacking and preparing for classes. Meg called and said that she and her family had spent the holiday with a stomach virus. Christine offered to make her a pumpkin pie, and Meg made a gagging sound. "I never want to see Thanksgiving food again!" she moaned.

During the night, Christine rested on her back with the covers pulled up to her chin and listened for anything inside or outside of her mind. Only silence met her. She went to her morning class on Monday. The university closed down in the afternoon due to a snowstorm. She wasn't supposed to work that evening anyway and was home by three. The sky darkened, and, by morning, the ground was covered with thick white powder. Nothing like a snow day as long as the electricity stayed on. Christine made herself a cup of hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and started to curl up on the sofa, watching a 90's sitcom that she'd enjoyed as a kid.

Around nine, her cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number. "Hello?"

"Christine?" It was the first time she'd ever heard Regina sound so upset.

"Yeah, it's me. What's wrong?" _Had Alexis finally told her about that stupid book?_

"How are you? Did you have a nice break?"

"Yeah. It was very nice. How about yours?"

"It was nice," murmured Regina. "Lots of food. Christine, I—you're not driving or anything, right?"

"No. Not in this weather. Why?"

"I need to tell you something kind of upsetting."

"What?"

A pause. A sob. "Joe. Joe is dead."

"What?! How?"

"He was killed last night at work after everyone was gone. Attacked. _Murdered._"

"No," Christine whispered, shrinking back into the couch cushions. "Why?"

"No one knows yet. Maybe they were after the older collection, thinking it might be worth something? God only knows. Anyway, the library is basically a crime scene right now. So I'll let you know when to come back to work. If you still feel comfortable working there…."

"Okay. I mean, yeah, I'll come back. Of course I will. I just can't believe it. I saw him like two weeks ago."

"I know. I've known him at least ten years. I—" Her voice cracked. Regina took a deep breath and collected herself. "Are you okay? I hated having to tell you. But you would have seen it on the news. There have been a lot of weird things happening around town. Make sure you walk with someone at night, okay?"

"I will. I'm glad you told me. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

They said their goodbyes, and Christine hung up with a heavy and disturbed heart. No one she knew had ever been murdered before. And she'd always liked Joe, even after he hadn't believed her about library ghosts. She remembered the news report and tied it to Regina's comment about weird things happening. A shiver traveled down her spine.

By Wednesday, campus was open again. A few flurries continued to fall. The snowplows had made the roads and sidewalks fairly accessible, although Christine still slid on an occasional patch of ice. Before going to class, she stopped to glance at the library. A couple police cars were parked around the building, contrasting with the serene stone architecture.

"Heard some dude was strangled," she heard one guy say to another. They had also stopped to look.

"Why? Someone make too much noise and the librarian snapped?"

"If I hear one more cell phone ring—"

They shared a morbid laugh. Christine subtly glared at them and walked off through the snow.

Her professors all discussed the material that would be on finals, but their voices seemed distant. By the time she left campus that afternoon, the police cars were gone. It looked like people were being allowed back inside the building. Closing an entire library near final exams had probably caused a lot of complaints, even if someone had just been killed.

She shivered, not just from the cold, and hugged her arms against her chest as she trudged forward, a red scarf wrapped securely around her neck. A white stocking cap with a red pompom sat atop her head and shielded her ears. The wind blew against her cheeks, and she was thankful to climb into the warm bus and head home.

Raoul called that evening. She cringed at the panic in his voice. "Christine! I heard what happened at the library!"

"Yeah, I know," she murmured. "It's pretty awful."

"Yeah. Jeez. Maybe you shouldn't be working there at all."

"It could have happened anywhere. You're never a hundred percent safe unless you never leave your house, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. But you were seeing weird things earlier this year."

She softly laughed. "So you don't think I'm _loco_ now?"

"I never thought you were. You were the one who decided it wasn't a big deal."

"I know. I'm just kidding. Sometimes—" She swallowed. "Sometimes it's easier to laugh."

"Yeah. Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?"

"No," she softly replied. "I'll be fine. Probably go to bed early."

"Okay. Love you. Let me know if you need anything. And don't walk around in the dark. Call me if you need a ride. Please."

"I will. Love you, too. See you soon."

The sun set, and the heaviness in her heart worsened. As she lay in bed that night, Christine realized that she was mourning Erik's absence. He had been her friend, and they had shared several strange connections that no one else would ever understand. Music. Supernatural. Her father. What if he'd simply disappeared to die? What if she never even got to say goodbye?

Regina hadn't yet called her back to work, but Christine still went into the library the next day. She slowly climbed to the second floor. Except for the specific section where the murder had occurred, the room was open. _POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS._ As her gaze settled over the yellow tape that marked the last spot Joe had been alive, the world seemed unbearably sad.

She took a deep breath and wiped away a tear. Finding an empty reading room, she took out a sheet of notebook paper and a blue pen.

_Dear Erik,_

_I wanted to say that I missed you that night. You said you would be there, and I really wanted to see you afterward. None of that would have happened without you. I'm not angry. I just hope you're okay. I hope you've found a place to rest and that you're feeling better._

_If you need to go, I understand. I wish you would say goodbye. If you can't, then I'll just say thank you right now._

_Thank you for everything._

_Your friend,_

_Christine_

She folded the note and left it on the table. Christine then headed home to another lonely and troubling evening in front of the television. The following day, she ran back up to the room and glanced inside. Her note was still there, untouched on the table. Sighing, she departed.

The next day, she checked again. This time, the piece of paper was gone. Her heart jumped. Then again, the cleaning staff or someone else could have picked it up and either thrown it away or kept it for amusement. She wouldn't try again. He was the one who had chosen not to say goodbye.

The next week passed with nothingness except schoolwork and snow. Raoul and Meg were both busy, as was she. Her gaze kept falling toward the frosted window as though the outside held the answers.

Then, on a Thursday afternoon toward the end of finals weeks, her phone buzzed. Expecting Meg or Raoul, Christine glanced at the screen.

"_Tomorrow. Our music room. 8 PM." _From a blocked number!

"Oh my gosh." Christine's eyes opened wide. She smiled in relief, rereading it several times. He hadn't left without saying goodbye.

Of course she would go see him.

And maybe she should have told someone where she was heading that Friday night, instead of walking to that building all by herself with a crescent moon high in the sky.

Raoul or Meg. Regina. Anyone.

But she had met with Erik many times before. And so there was no fear in her heart.

So all she told Raoul was, "Yeah. I can't get together Friday night. Study group."

"I thought your finals were over."

"It's a special music one."

Only a few other students walked along the empty campus sidewalks. She wasn't the only one ignoring the university's warnings to stay in pairs at night. They had survived another semester and were maybe feeling a little invincible. As usual, the building was empty, a few hallway lights still on for security purposes. One of them flickered, making her a little dizzy. Her heart pounded as she approached the familiar room, her skin tingling.

Opening the door, she stepped inside and turned on a single dim light. She checked her phone. 7:58 PM.

He wasn't late.

Chimes in a lower key met her first. They were not as frantic as the ones that she'd heard after her recital. She didn't sense fear in them. But they were still unpleasant. Calm, cold, and steady. Closer and closer.

_Something doesn't feel right._

They seemed to stop approaching. He was near.

"Erik?" she whispered, her gloved fingers nervously rubbing against her thumbs. "Is that you?"

Silence.

"Erik?" she practically squeaked.

"Christine."

Half of her wanted to step backward—because this couldn't be Erik. She was meeting a complete stranger in the darkness.

Half of her wanted to move forward—because this had to be the most divine voice in the entire universe. Christine wished it would engulf her and sweep her up into the heavens. Because such a voice could only come from an Angel.

And so she remained motionless, terrified and captivated. A cold breeze slithered up her face like a snake and wrapped itself around her shoulders, further immobilizing her. She swore that she could see her breath. The single light flickered and then dimmed, enshrouding the room in shadows.

Before she could blink, Christine was facing a very tall form dressed in black. "Christine," repeated the owner of the magical voice.

"Who-?" She choked. Her gaze trailed over the man's silhouette. Finally, she found the yellow eyes behind a black mask. Finally, she found something familiar to her. "Erik?"

"It is Erik, my dear. Yes, it is me. Do not be scared."

"Your _voice._"

He nodded. "Do you like it? Much more pleasing to the ear, isn't it?"

The temperature pulsated between warm and cold. An invisible energy surrounded them, and the chimes seemed to morph into a low frequency humming—a vibration that made the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end.

"Are you better now?" she whispered, taking a step backward.

"Yes. Very much so."

"How?"

"As you suggested, I finally…took my medicine. I did it all for you, Christine. And everything can finally be as it should be."


	12. Chapter 12

A shorter chapter for you as we go into the more POTO-themed part of the story. I'm estimating that the total story will have about 30 chapters, so we're about to the midway climax. So glad you're enjoying the darker parts.

**Enjoy! Read and Review!**

_"As you suggested, I finally…took my medicine. I did it all for you, Christine. And everything can finally be as it should be."_

"Your m-medicine?" she stuttered, her gaze trailing up and down him as her mind tried to comprehend the situation. "I don't understand. I thought you couldn't be helped. You said doctors couldn't help you."

"There have been healthcare reforms," he dry replied. Then his voice softened, and a gloved hand reached out slightly, beckoning her. "Do not be frightened, my dear. It is still me. Except highly improved. I can play music for hours upon hours. Nothing will interrupt us now."

"What were you sick with? How did you get better?"

"You are not pleased?" He sounded genuinely upset.

"No. I mean, yes, I'm pleased. I'm happy you're not in pain." And she was. But...Christine slowly looked over him again, the air pulsating around her. "Erik, how old are you?"

"About four decades, I suppose. Still half a lifetime left, which seemed nearly unbearable. But now it does not, Christine."

She swallowed; her mouth was dry. Forty wasn't seventy. And her entire perception of him changed in a way that she wasn't prepared for. And that feeling around her, the dark humming and the coldness and the general sensation of something so very wrong. Something dangerous. All of it was dizzying.

"Will you sing with the violin tonight?" he asked, bending forward slightly. "I have greatly missed your voice."

"Why didn't you come after my performance?" Her shoulder blades brushed against the wall.

"You had enough company, didn't you?" There was something about the way he said it that made her very uncomfortable. "But that is unimportant right now. We are alone. And it will stay that way. Now will you sing with me? Music will quickly put everything into place."

"Y-yes. We can do that." She said it to appease him, all the while thinking over the layout of the building in case she needed an escape route. But then he began to play the violin, and everything else disappeared. If she thought his previous playing was fantastic, then this was unbelievable.

And so, when Erik commanded, "Sing!"- she obeyed without question. Christine sang with even more intensity than she had at her performance. The invisible energy seemed to throb with the music. She nearly lost herself in it all, her voice entwining itself with the violin to where she lacked control. The cold and heat swirled around her, and she barely noticed the flickering lights or the darker presence wrapped around her neck. When he stopped playing, she fell back against the wall as though the music had been holding her up. She felt like a powerless puppet.

He whispered, "Yes. This is perfection. I knew it would be. Did you hear that? Did you, Christine?! This is how it is supposed to be. This is how _we_ are supposed to be!"

"That was - Oh." She panted as her voice and the violin continued to echo in her ears. He didn't seem to be tired in the slightest. With the music gone, the fear and confusion returned. Reaching out to the side, Christine flipped on all the lights she could reach with her palm. Erik tilted his head but didn't reprimand her. The brightness didn't bring the clarity she'd hoped for. "Why do you still wear a mask?" she asked. "If you're better? What are you hiding?"

"I am not entirely healed," he explained, glancing downward. "I may never be. The medicine that is necessary to fix all of me is quite expensive. But that will depend on you."

"On me?"

"Yes. What you can tolerate as far as my appearance is concerned."

"Tolerate?" She shook her head. "Erik, I just wanted you to feel better. I didn't care how you looked."

"Of course you did. How could you not? It was utterly repugnant, and I stank of rot."

Indeed, she noted that the smell was gone. Only that frigid, vibrating energy remained. And she frankly preferred the smell of cold soil to whatever was in that room with them.

"You know, Erik, I-I need to go now," she whispered. "I need to go home. It's getting late."

"It is growing later," he agreed. Erik studied her. "But you are still frightened. Why?"

"I'm not." Lying was not one of her strengths.

"You are trembling."

"That's because I'm cold. I'm cold and tired…and confused."

"Why?"

"Because _everything's_ changed. And I don't understand why."

"You are upset that I am no longer ill?" he asked.

"No. It's not that. It's—"

"I can play endlessly for you. I am no longer a pathetic invalid. And you are unhappy?"

"No. Yes, I'm happy you're better. I'm happy for you. But-" But how did she tell him that he felt differently without sounding crazy? Because that was the problem.

He looked less like Death. But he felt _more_ like it.

She swore she felt something brush against her hair. And then the softest whisper brushed her ear—_"So delicate."_

Christine flinched and gasped, shaking her head back and forth. Was she losing her mind?

"Christine, my dear." Erik took two slow steps toward her. "You do not need to be scared. Everything is the same. Do not be frightened of me."

"Can I go?" she shakily asked, unable to take any more steps backward. "I want to go and think about all this."

"To where? To that _boy_?"

"What?" Her heart jumped as the yellow eyes narrowed.

"I saw you with him afterwards. After you sang. I saw you with him. You kissed him."

"He's my boyfriend! What does that have to do with anything? I don't understand what's happening!" Her heart beat frantically now as a rush of adrenaline prepared her to fly forward.

"Everything can change now. As much as you want it to. Balance. We will find balance."

She scooted along the plaster wall toward the door. "I need to go now, Erik. I need to go."

"Christine—"

But she turned, opened the door to the room, and jogged down the empty corridor. Her footsteps echoed hollowly against the linoleum tiles, and her breath was audible in her ears. "Christine." The voice called after her, its entrancing beauty nearly making her want to obey. She made it to the double doors at the end of the corridor and practically threw herself at them. The metal doors didn't budge; they were locked. Her heart skipped a terrified beat.

"No," she whispered. "Come on. No." They had never been locked from the inside before. She put her shoulder against them. Christine frantically glanced behind her and saw Erik approaching. Not running, only smoothly striding forward.

"Why are you frightened of me?" he asked when he was about ten yards away.

"Why won't the door open?"

"Why are you scared of Erik?"

"Because…. _Please._ Please just let me go home." The coldness slithered over her body once more as shadows danced along the walls like marionettes.

With a sob of frustration, she finally gave up on the corridor doors. Christine darted to the side and toward the door of a lecture hall, hoping that room would have another exit. Erik only stood in the middle of the hallway, arms at his sides as he studied her. To her horror, the door to the lecture hall wouldn't open either, no matter how hard she pulled on and twisted the metal knob. She ran down the corridor and tried almost every single door, pulling and pushing and grunting and struggling. She even tried the music room they had just been in. All were now locked.

Eyes blurry with tears of fear, Christine again glanced at Erik. He was standing still, watching her. "I want to go!" she cried.

"Why are you afraid of me?" he again questioned.

"Because you won't let me leave!"

"I am doing nothing to stop you."

She didn't believe him despite the visual evidence. Christine momentarily buried her face in her hands and tried not to have a complete meltdown. Keeping a constant eye on him, she dug in her purse for her phone. Finding it, she stared down at the glowing numbers. Raoul? Meg? 9-11? Before she could decide, the phone flew from her fingertips.

She didn't drop it. She didn't throw it. An invisible hand grabbed the phone and ripped it from her grasp. It landed with a clatter on the floor several yards away from her.

She vaguely thought she heard Erik say, "Do not do that. It is unnecessary." But Christine didn't think he was speaking to her.

Terrified and helpless, Christine slid down the wall and to the cool tiles. She put her knees up to her chest and hugged them, resting her chin on the pointed tops as tears ran down her cheeks. Her entire body was shaking.

Erik slowly approached. She flinched as he knelt beside her, just as she had done with him weeks ago. When everything had been so very different.

"Do not be afraid," he said, softly. "As I said, nothing has really changed. I am still Erik. Your friend, Erik. And I care for you so dearly."

"I just want to go home," she whispered, her gaze on the floor.

"It will simply take time to adjust. And we have time now." He offered her a gloved hand. After a moment, she reached out. Instead of taking his hand, though, she gently tugged on the index finger of the leather glove, pulling it off to expose his skin. Smooth, pale flesh awaited her. There were no scars or hints of damage. All was healed.

It was like…magic.

"See?" he asked, hopefully. "See, Christine? Much less repulsive, right?"

"Erik?" She slowly looked from his hand to his yellow eyes. She studied him.

"Yes, my dear?"

"What-what are you?"

His fingers curled. "Just Erik," he whispered. "I am just Erik. Please let me show you how much better it will be now. Please Christine…."

With his icy, unscarred fingers, he reached out and stroked her cheek.

A shadow flew in front of her vision. Without eyes or a nose, the black shade grinned at her, revealing pointed white teeth. She hadn't seen anything like it since she was fourteen.

Fourteen and crazy.

"Please, Christine," Erik begged.

"_So soft and lovely," _the Other whispered.

She eagerly escaped insanity and embraced nothingness.

* * *

><p><em>"I thought your finals were over."<em>

_"It's a special music one."_

There'd been an abruptness to her tone. So Raoul had dropped the topic.

Still, Christine had been on his mind throughout Friday afternoon and evening. Really, she'd lingered in his thoughts throughout the entire semester. Starting with the weirdness at the beginning of the autumn, she had seemed different. A little more distant and lost in thought. A few more shadows beneath her eyes. A furrowed brow.

Raoul had been busy that semester, too, and so maybe he hadn't asked as many questions as he should have. Between grad school and his father's constant criticism, it was nice to have a girlfriend who didn't call him every five minutes with demands or accusations. But then having an aloof girlfriend wasn't so fun either. He hoped that the winter holiday gave them time to rekindle things a little. Raoul still thought of her as the girl he was going to eventually settle down with.

He recalled the conversation between two guys behind him as they all handed in their final marketing projects.

"So damned glad to be done with this crap. Time to get completely wasted," said the younger guy.

The middle-aged man laughed and said, "I would, but I don't think my wife would appreciate it."

"Heh. I couldn't take that yet. Too much field to play."

Raoul had noticed that a lot of younger guys weren't ready to settle down. In fact, he was heading in that direction a little faster than he'd expected. But - he didn't really think he'd meet many more girls like Christine. She was warm and gentle. Quiet unless you got to know her and then she had a quirky sense of humor that he'd quickly learned to appreciate. Sometimes she seemed a little lost or overly anxious, but Raoul didn't mind that so much. It was better than the "my way or the highway" attitude that some modern women gave out. Not that he was all that old-fashioned, certainly not like his father, but Raoul liked that she cared about what other people wanted. Genuine compassion was sometimes hard to come by these days.

Now that he had time to think about it, Raoul realized that her explanation for Friday night was kind of weird. She had a special music final? Still, he let it go that night and only sent her a text that said, "Let's celebrate the end of the semester tomorrow night. Fine dining and wine?" After an action movie, he fell into his unmade bed around eleven.

She hadn't sent him a return message by Saturday morning. Raoul called her, thinking that she'd be up by ten. "Hello. You have reached the voice mail box of Christine Daae. Please leave a—"

Maybe she wasn't up. When he couldn't get a hold of her by that afternoon, Raoul became a little worried. She wasn't angry, was she? Had he forgotten an important date? Said something offensive? Christine wasn't usually the type to overreact, but….

He eventually hopped in his car and made the short drive to her apartment. Raoul parked to the side of the gravely road, walked up to her unit, and knocked. No one answered. He tried again. Snow lingered on the part of her wooden porch that was in the shade, and he saw her small footsteps heading back and forth from the door.

His stomach turned nervously.

A nearby door squeaked open, and her scruffy neighbor stepped outside for a cigarette. Raoul waved and asked, "Hey. Have you seen the girl who lives here today?"

The guy shook his head and grunted, blowing smoke into the cold air.

"Did you see her yesterday?"

"Yeah. In the morning."

"Thanks," Raoul muttered. He knocked again. No answer. Maybe she was out or still working on something for school. Maybe she'd forgotten to recharge her phone battery. He left.

As late afternoon approached, Raoul distracted himself with a video game and college football. He talked to his mom on the phone about California travel plans. Should he and Christine fly down there separately? Because being stuck with his father on a plane for several hours was not Raoul's idea of a holiday. He tried her two more times, and the call always went directly to her voice mail. He checked his e-mail for any messages from her. When the sun began to set, he phoned Meg. "Have you heard from Christine today?" he asked.

"Nope. Why?"

"When was the last time you heard from her?"

"Um. Probably Thursday. Yeah, we talked for a little while about going to the ballet in January."

"But not yesterday or today?"

"No. Why?" Meg's voice went up a pitch.

"I haven't been able to get a hold of her for a while. Maybe she's mad at me for some reason. Or avoiding me. Could you give her a call? Please?"

"Yeah. Sure. I'll call you right back. Unless I decide to be mad at you, too." She giggled.

"Thanks, Meg."

_Chill out. Everything is fine._

His phone rang two minutes later. "Hi," Meg greeted. "I couldn't get a hold of her either. I tried twice and then sent her a text."

"What the heck?" muttered Raoul. "I went over to her place earlier, and she didn't answer the door."

"Okay. Hm." Meg paused. "Maybe she was really tired and didn't hear you knock. I don't know. Does she have relatives around here? Uh. Oh! Her job! Maybe she's working."

"Now? All right. Worth a shot. Regina gave me her number. I'll try her."

"I'll call the library," said Meg.

Raoul quickly dialed Christine's boss. "Hello?" answered an older woman.

"Hey. Regina? This is Raoul. Christine's boyfriend."

"Oh, hello, dear. How are you?" Regina sounded a little stressed.

"Good. I was wondering if you'd heard from Christine today or yesterday. Was she working?"

"No. She wasn't scheduled to work. We're having shorter hours during the break."

"Oh." Raoul could no longer mask the disappointment in his voice. "Thanks anyway. If you hear from her, could you let me know?"

"Sure. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." He wasn't quite ready to sound the official alarm. "Thanks again."

Raoul already knew that Meg would have no good news. "They weren't open right now," she said when he answered. "So…hm."

"She said she had something to do last night. Some special music final. But I haven't heard from her since she told me that."

"That sounds a little weird."

An uncomfortable pause passed between them.

"I'll meet you at her apartment," said Meg.

"I already tried there."

"Let's try again. I have a spare key."

Darkness and cold settled around him. Raoul arrived a minute earlier and ran up to her door, using porch lights to find his way. He tried knocking again to no avail. In the night, it was clear that no lights were on inside. Meg appeared and ran over to his side, silver ballet flats sinking through the snow. "Any luck?"

"Nope."

"Christine!" Meg shouted, pounding her fist against the door. "Wake up in there! Christine! If you don't get out here, I'll steal your boyfriend. I mean it. I have him right here." Her hand dropped to the side. "All right. I'm going in. We just won't get mud on her floor or anything. Not that she cleans much. I hope you can clean because she can't."

Taking out a key, Meg unlocked the door with a click. Slowly, she opened it and poked her head into the apartment. Scents of food met them, burned popcorn and microwavable dinners. And silence. Meg flipped on the kitchen and living room lights, and Raoul ran to her bedroom. The bed was unmade and empty. He checked the bathroom and the closet. There were no wet spots near the shower or any other sign that someone had been there recently.

They finally stood in the middle of her cluttered living room. Meg wrung her hands. "Maybe she wanted some time to herself or something? Like 'me' time?"

"And not even let one of us know? Not answer our calls just to tell us she's okay?" Running a hand through his short hair, Raoul started to head back to the front door, and Meg slowly followed. She locked the door behind them.

Meg sighed. "I don't know. You're right; that doesn't seem like her. So when do we start getting really worried?"

"I am really worried," Raoul admitted.

"Worried enough to get the police? I guess it's technically been twenty-four hours since we've seen any sign of her."

A cold breeze brushed their cheeks and made the snow swish like sand around their feet. Meg's dark hair blew around her face as she adjusted her purple scarf over her mouth and nose. Raoul sickly recalled that three mysterious homicides had occurred mere miles from Christine's apartment. Why the hell hadn't he offered to drive her wherever she'd needed to go Friday night? Even escorted her inside or something? Pushing the horrible thoughts away, he turned back toward a plan of action. "Let's look around campus a little more. And then, yeah, let's find someone to help. Something's not right."

So they browsed the nearby streets and searched near the buildings where she'd had her classes. Meg identified all her favorite cafes and casual restaurants where Christine would go to read or study or just unwind. But most places were dark and closed. People were heading home for the holidays, and campus would be quiet for the next several weeks. As the hour became later, a feeling of dread settled at the pit of his stomach. Raoul sighed and rubbed both hands over his face. "So do we go to the police? Do we know anything to tell them? Maybe they could trace her phone? Unless it's off." He softly cursed.

"Yeah," said Meg. She bit her bottom lip and looked at the ground. "Oh, God. I hope…."

"You hope what?" The fear in her dark eyes disturbed him.

"I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. I promised her."

"Tell what, Meg?" He turned to face her.

She hesitated. "I do know something else. But she said he was harmless. She said he was elderly. She said—"

"_Who?"_ Raoul nearly snapped.

"Her voice teacher," Meg whispered.

"Ian? What does he have to do with—"

"No. This other one…."

"What? Wait, yeah." He recalled their conversation on Halloween night. "She mentioned some musician. She wanted to help him, said he was sick and old."

"And homeless," Meg added. "I didn't know she told you about him."

"_Homeless?"_

"I guess she didn't tell you everything. Anyway, that probably has nothing to do with this."

"But we don't have anything else right now," said Raoul, thrusting out his palms "This is starting to sound weird. She wouldn't completely disappear without telling one of us. Do you know anything else about this guy?"

Meg swallowed. "Just his first name."


	13. Chapter 13

This type of scene has been done a million times over, I know. What I wanted to make different, though, was Erik's lack of control over the situation. In a way, our heroine and antihero are both hostages. I hope you enjoy this darker chapter. Thank you for all the lovely reviews.

**Read and Review!**

_Did I fall asleep in my living room? I haven't done that in forever. What day is it? The weekend? Oh, it doesn't matter. Finals are over. My head hurts. What in the heck did I do last night? Did I drink too much wine with Raoul again? I hope I didn't get tipsy and say something stupid. I wonder-_

She finally opened her eyes. A soft gasp escaped her chapped lips. Christine had fallen asleep in a living room. But not her living room. She was lying on a soft black sofa, covered in a yellow blanket and curled up in a warm fetal position. Startled, she turned onto her back and sat up straight, gripping the blanket and trying to recall any small detail about her prior conscious hours. She could remember blackness, coldness, and beautiful music.

_And Erik!_

_Oh my God._

The living room was somewhat bare, and the overhead light was dim. The floors were made of a polished dark wood, and a midnight blue and crimson Oriental throw rug was sprawled out in the center. There were no windows nor pictures on the wall. A black coffee table rested in front of the couch. A silver lamp with a grey shade sat on a smaller table, and several books were stacked beneath it. An unplugged flat screen television stood at the front of the room. Everything appeared to be new and unused. It felt artificial - as though someone had stuck her in a dollhouse.

She shivered despite the fact that the room was a comfortable temperate.

With a soft whimper, Christine threw the blanket off and stood. Her shoes were gone, and the floor was cold beneath her socks. Panicking, she looked around. A couple of doors that matched the floor were positioned on each side of her. A heater crackled and hummed in the background. Otherwise, there was silence. Until-

"You are awake. I was concerned." She jumped and whirled around at the sound of the perfect voice. A cold gust of air brushed her forehead, and suddenly Christine recalled much of the previous night. Still, some of the details seemed so bizarre that she wasn't sure if all her memories were real or part of a nightmare. "I thought you were ill," he continued.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

"You fainted last night. And so I brought you here. I did not think it would be good for you to be alone."

"Where is here?"

"My new residence. It is a bit small but, for now, it is sufficient. As you can see by the lack of belongings, I was not quite prepared for your arrival. Or your odd behavior last night. And so." Erik glanced down. "It all became a bit disorganized."

She slowly shook her head. "But _why _am I here?"

"I told you. You were unconscious. You should not have been alone."

"Then why not—" She swallowed. "Why not take me to a hospital?"

"You had merely fainted; there was no head injury. And-and because I wanted to show you! You see? You see all this?" He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. "I am no longer homeless. Or ill. Or horrible. Every day, I become more like everybody else. All because of you, Christine. You have given me a reason to alter my path. Do you see?

"Where are we?" He heart pounded. "Are we near my home? Or…?"

"Close enough," he replied with a shrug. "Do not worry; your classes have ended. And this will be a perfect opportunity for us to speak. I do not understand why you are so disappointed that I am no longer sick."

"Erik. I'm happy you're better." She nervously glanced from side to side. Did he mean to keep her here? The disturbing humming had returned to her head, and again she sensed that cold presence.

"Then why do you despise me?"

"I don't. I don't."

"You fear me."

"I'm just confused." She took a shuddery breath. "What time is it?"

"Around eleven in the morning, I imagine. You slept long."

"Eleven on Saturday?"

"Yes."

She groaned and placed her face into her cupped hands. "Can I go now? I need to go. Please."

His hands dropped, and his fingers curled slightly at his sides. "I do not want you to be frightened of me. You will never come back if you are frightened."

"I won't be frightened." Shadows shifted on the wall, forming into strange asymmetrical shapes and then blending together.

"Will you come back to see me and sing with me? Will you visit often?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll come see you any time." She didn't know if that was a lie. Probably. But she needed to get away and find clarity, if only to figure this all out. Was it him? Or was she going crazy? Her clothes were wrinkled, and her hair was matted with oil and sweat.

"You are a kind and good girl to have treated me so well when I was monstrous. No one had ever done so before. Only you. I had to be better for you."

He looked at the ground. Despite her growing terror, his words slightly touched her heart. "Erik." She grappled for honestly, both to calm herself and reach out to him. "I'm not entirely well right now. I don't know what's wrong. Maybe I'm stressed. Maybe I'm coming down with a cold. But I really need to go and be by myself. And then I'll—"

"_Behind the mask…."_

The thought wasn't her own, and yet it interrupted her. Shaking her head, Christine forced the foreign words away and continued. "And then I'll feel better."

"Yes, you do seem very tired," he softly agreed. "And then you will return later?"

"Yes."

He nodded but stood there, making her increasingly nervous. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"Erik, I'd like to see the front door. Right now."

"Yes, the front door," he murmured. "And then I will devise a way for you to contact me when you are ready to come see Erik again? Yes?"

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth. The faces of Raoul and Meg popped into her mind. Once she saw them again, she'd give them gigantic hugs and never let go.

"May I play something for you to remember Erik by? So that you will be less afraid? One more piece?"

She was going to demand that he let her go at that very instant. Yet Christine was also scared of upsetting him. And she realized that she didn't know this person. This wasn't a sickly, elderly, homeless individual whom needed her help. This was someone else. Someone who could hurt her. He could do anything to her. And no one would hear her scream.

She could literally disappear off the face of the earth. How did she get herself into this situation?

_I trusted him._

Christine bit back her panic, hoping to appease him. "Yes, Erik. Play something. And then I can go?"

"Yes," he said. "Then you may go." Slowly, he walked to the side of the room where a black leather violin case leaned against the wall. With his narrow back toward her, Erik began to take the delicate instrument out of the case, each movement smooth. He turned toward her and nodded once. "I think you will enjoy this one." Closing his eyes, he rested the violin against his shoulder. As he played a slow and unfamiliar piece, she remembered one of the reasons she'd been drawn to him. He was beyond gifted at music. His playing was surreal, and the shadows on the walls danced with the song, bobbing and flitting. Majestic. Graceful. Slowly, she took a seat on the couch and let the notes fly over her.

"_Behind the mask…."_

Christine rubbed her temples. What if she were the crazy one? What if Erik were merely eccentric, and she was completely insane? When the piece was finished, Erik took several steps toward her. She leaned back. "You see?" he asked. "You see? The music delights you. You are not afraid when there is music, yes?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"I don't want to frighten you." Erik slowly sat beside her as she warily stared at him. He held his bare hand out toward her. "See? No more horror. No more rotting skin." After merely staring at him for several seconds, Christine gently took his cold hand and rubbed her thumb over the back of it. "See?" he asked with such hope that it made her heart jump.

"_Behind the mask…."_

Confused and still somewhat transfixed by the music of earlier, she slowly gazed from his hand to his eyes. They pled with her.

"_Your answers are there."_

Would that bring clarity? She was becoming exhausted of mystery. In the room of shadows and humming, all she wanted was some piece of understanding.

"Play me something else, Erik," she murmured.

"Yes! Of course," he eagerly replied. And as he turned back toward his violin, staring down at the bow and strings—Christine reached up. She swore that she barely touched it. Yet, with one small tug, the black piece of leather came flying off. It landed several feet away. Stunned, Christine momentarily stared at it and then turned her head to see Erik's face.

A skull with fiery orange-yellow eyes.

A roar of anger. A cascade of shadows falling over the entire living room. Victorious laughter echoing in her head. A glaring, hissing skull towering over her. The humming became a vibration that she could feel beneath her feet like an earthquake. A scream - her scream as her sensations were flooded with darkness.

"_Now you will never come back!" _Erik roared. And then he howled. And something else continued to laugh and laugh and laugh.

As she leaned backward on the couch, disoriented and screaming in utter terror, Erik was practically on top of her, yelling again and again into her face, "Now you will never come back! Now you will never come back to me!"

With clawed hands, she attempted to bat him away. Before he killed her right there. But as her hands pushed against his sharp shoulders it was like trying to hold back a stone wall.

Her scream died as the echoes of horror faded into silence and the shadows stilled. Only the humming remained. And an evil cackle. With a sob, Erik practically slid down the front of her body, down to his knees, and buried his face into her stomach. Half-sitting, half-standing, Christine fell back into the sofa and stared at the top of his sparsely-covered head. She was frozen, her heart pounding in her ears. Realizing that she'd stopped breathing, she took in a large gulp of air.

There was something wrong with the lights.

They were flickering.

Flickering right along with her sanity.

He said something, but Erik's words were muffled by her stomach.

"Wh-what?" she choked. Her voice sounded distant.

"Now you will never come back," he quietly repeated, raising his head and looking up at her with sad hollowed eyes. With his curled fingers, he clutched her shirt and used it to cover the bottom portion of his death's face. "Now you will never come see me."

"I will," she whispered. Yet neither of them believed her.

"But I can fix this, too," he murmured, finally pulling away and covering his face with his bony hands. He stood and turned away from her.

She collapsed backward onto the couch. "Fix it?"

"Yes. I can. It will take effort and some time. But I can make all of myself better for you, if that is what it takes. I could be physically perfect for you. And then you will love me."

"Please let me go," she said with a sob. She was too exhausted and terrified to even try to understand his cryptic words. "Please. Please."

Bending down, Erik picked his mask up from the floor and silently tied it back on. "No," he said, softly. "No. You won't return now. You will run. But I will make this place far more comfortable for you. I will decorate it. What colors do you like, Christine?" He looked around, one hand rubbing his chin. "What books? Magazines? Music? Pictures for the wall? Anything you wish for. The room to the right can be yours. And you may decorate it!"

She hopped up, hands clenched at her side. "You can't keep me here against my will!" she shrieked. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Once my face is better, it will no longer be against your will. Until then—well, you are the one who had to see me, yes? That was your fault. Why did you have to see, Christine?"

"I trusted you! You were my friend! You can't do this!"

"What sort of wallpaper would you prefer? What colors? Flowers or stripes?" He was not mocking her; his voice was genuinely curious. Yet also somewhat distant—as though he were trying to ignore the utter wrongness of the situation.

Denial.

"Erik, you have kidnapped me! Do you understand that? Let me go!"

He turned toward her and stared downward. "Clothing," he said after a moment. "You will need that as well. New? Or perhaps I can run to your apartment." He took a step toward her. "Which would you prefer? Perhaps some new items?"

With a cry of frustration, Christine picked up one of the books from the side table and hurled it at him. She immediately regretted the action, thinking it would enrage him. They both watched as the book flew through the air, stopped several inches in front of Erik's chest, floated for a split second, and then dropped to the ground with a thud in front of him.

"Do not do that," Erik murmured. Yet he remained calm.

And, once again, she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her.

She was obviously crazy. Christine ran to the nearest door and pulled on the knob. It wouldn't open. When Erik was around, doors were impenetrable. And gravity no longer applied. As though she'd fallen through a nightmarish looking glass and into Wonderland, the world no longer made sense at all. She finally collapsed to her knees and wept.

"Please do not cry," said Erik, standing over her. "There is no reason to cry. You will be fine."

"Let me go!" she wailed into her hands.

"I cannot. Please. I promise it will all be better soon. You must give Erik more time to make it better." He held out a hand, but she ignored him. She cried and willed the world away. A world that no longer made any sense. When Christine finally looked up again, Erik was gone. Only the vibrations told her that he was not too far away. Gasping sobs escaped her lips as her panic attack raged on.

_Okay, Christine. Okay. Okay. Think of five positive things. Five. Five._

_Okay._

_Okay._

_Breathe. Okay. You just have to find a way out._

_First, five things. And then you'll feel better. Then you'll calm down._

_I got good grades this semester. All A's._

_Only with Erik's help._

_I…my voice is really, really good now._

_With Erik's help. Oh, God. Why?_

_Raoul loves me. If I ever see him again…._

_And…And—_

A shadow swirled in her vision. Laughter.

She again collapsed into a sobbing heap because there was no escape - not from this home and not from her own mind.

And she didn't know which form of entrapment was worse.

* * *

><p><em>She will only love you once you no longer look like a monster.<em>

_But she tolerated my company before._

_She thought you were harmless. A pathetic project. She fears you now because you are more of a man. And that fear will only turn to love when you become a man she desires._

He stared at his fallen angel with a growing sensation of dread, hidden away as she wept. His presence only upset her more. From the second he'd returned, she had despised him. And the thing repeatedly told him that his hideousness was at fault.

Christine had curled up in a ball on the floor. He slinked into the bedroom that would soon belong to her. He hadn't planned on bringing her there for at least another month or so and under much happier circumstances. Now, he was forced to make do with what little he had gathered for her, new sheets and a lavender quilt. A vase of purple irises and yellow sunflowers. A white shower curtain decorated with swirls of green bamboo leaves.

As he worked, he recalled the feel of her as he'd carried her unconscious form from the car to his new acquired home. Not too heavy. Warm and soft. It had been so difficult to let go, but she would scream if he held onto her while she was conscious. When he left the bedroom and approached, she instantly drew back. Her eyes were wide, frightened and angry.

"I have prepared your room," he stated, gesturing to the ajar door. "Please tell me if anything is not to your liking."

"I want to go," she said with a sob. "Please, please let me go. I won't tell anyone about you."

"But you won't come back," he replied. "I do not want to search the continent for you. Not when there are so many terrible misunderstandings."

"This is illegal! Do you know that? It's illegal to keep me here!"

He attempted not to think on her accusations. She simply did not understand. "It is necessary for a short time."

"I hate you!" He flinched, and she jumped up. Christine ran in the direction of the room, pausing in the doorway as she cautiously glanced inside. Then she rushed all the way in and slammed the door. The walls vibrated. He could hear her playing with the knob in an attempt to find a lock.

Of course, there was no lock. She gave up, and he heard her begin to cry again.

He shakily sat down. How had it ever come to this?

The thing's wisdom made him recall a conversation that he'd had with Alexander over a five course meal. Wine. Bowls of fruit. Every type of meat one could imagine, including those banned by many of the region's religions. Cakes and pies and breads. As though they'd even needed to eat. No, they lived in luxury only for appearances. The servants were gone, and they were alone.

Alone except for the Others, of course.

"_You have to understand, Erik, that your companion has the same basic needs as any other living thing."_

"_What?" He'd leaned forward, desperate to learn. After he'd spent decades searching for answers, Alexander seemed to have them all. "What does it want? Power? Wealth?"_

"_Think more simply." Alexander leaned back into the chair and placed his hands behind his head. "Humans want to eat, and they want to breed. Food and sex. That's it! That's what all creatures want. You feed your companion with your actions. When it's strong, you're strong. So now you have to fulfill its other basic need."_

_His hands had quivered as he was faced with the task he'd been avoiding. He had stolen. He had killed. He had lied and cheated and destroyed. But this deed seemed the most horrible. "Can it be any girl?"_

"_Technically but not quite," Alexander replied, taking a sip of wine. "She has to be very desperate. Because this isn't an easy or fast process. She has to have some willingness to believe in the beyond. Five hundred years ago, most people believed in sorcery. It's harder to find now. But it's still possible. You'll have to relax her. She needs to submit to the procedure."_

"_Why would any woman come near me for any reason?" he asked with a grunt._

_"Your companion will make it easier as the time approaches. And, as I said, you'll need someone desperate." Alexander smirked. "And then you'll have to keep tabs on the situation. I completely messed up the first time." A pause. "But the second time worked out well. I got very luck with Angela."_

_He had done enough research to know the name of his grandmother._

_And he soon had Alexander by the throat with both hands, attempting to squeeze the life out of the demonic man. But Alexander only laughed, his black eyes sparkling. And the thing laughed and laughed. Finally, _he_ gave up with a groan of anger. Alexander brushed himself off and said, "I did the same thing when I met my maker. Well, actually I came at him with a rusty ax. Cathartic, isn't it? You'll feel differently once you've completed the process."_

And Alexander had a point. How could he hate his maker when he was about to take the exact same path?

But _he_ hadn't, in the end. At the very last minute, he had torn himself from the ritual. He had promised to never again put himself in such a situation.

Yet, back then, there had been nothing that he desperately wanted. Power and wealth bored him. He had loved no one.

But now? He had never wanted anyone or anything as terribly as he did Christine Daae. He yearned to sit across from her at the dinner table and hold hands with her as they walked through the park and to buy her the prettiest of jewelry and flowers. And he wanted physical things - to feel her warm body curled up next to his in the darkness. He wanted to kiss her and hide his horrible face in her soft hair.

Most of all, he wanted her to save him from the horror that had been his life. And the loneliness. The nothingness.

And he could still hear her crying inside the bedroom.

He had not meant for it to come to this. _Abduction._ Not because he feared any legal repercussions. If a hundred police fired their guns at him, the bullets would drop to the ground at his feet.

He wanted her there willingly, though. Smiling and desiring music and conversation. Just as she had in the prior months. Before he had taken action to fix himself.

He noticed that it was growing later. Time to make her a proper dinner. Unlike him, she required sustenance. He gently knocked on her door. "My dear? Would you prefer pasta or chicken and potatoes for your supper?"

No response.

"My dear?"

Nothing. So he slowly opened the door. She was curled up on the bed, and she glared at him with red eyes. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and her hair was tangled and falling into her face.

"Is everything to your liking?"

"Please let me go."

"You will run from me."

"I won't. I'll visit whenever you want. Please, please, please."

"I need to feed you," he stated. "It is very important that Erik feeds you now. What would you like?"

She merely stared at him, blinking twice.

"I will make you pasta," he stated, nodding and shutting the door. He was trying to reach for calm. There was a part of him that wanted to rage at Christine for her fear. All he wanted was her kindness. Why must she be so cruel? Why must she hate him now?

_Because you're hideous…._

Must he really play his final card to receive her love? Would he have to sacrifice some other female to the darkness in order to have his Christine? Oh, but he would do it….

For a kiss and a smile, he would do it.

He made her dinner, tortellini and tomato sauce. She refused to come out. He placed the plate beside her door.

Later, he played the violin again, hoping to soothe her. She didn't emerge, but the sobs finally ceased.

He massaged his temples as the hour became later. Perhaps it would simply take time for her to adjust. To understand what she meant to him. Yes, simply time. And then she would be his sweet, loving Christine again. He started to resign himself to a quiet night, planning her breakfast for tomorrow. Sweet or savory?

The door creaked opened. He heard a startled cry and a clatter. Christine was standing in the doorway, staring downward as her hair fell into her face. "Oh," she moaned.

He stood and also glanced down, alarmed. "You have merely stepped in your food," he stated. "It is fine. I will find you a damp cloth."

When he returned, she stared at the wet rag for five seconds before slowly taking it. After glancing at him suspiciously, she began to wipe the red sauce off her foot.

"Do you need something?" he asked when she was finished. Several more seconds of silence ticked by.

"What are you going to do to me?" Her gaze remained on the floor, and her voice was hoarse and barely audible.

"Nothing," he replied, holding out his hands in a pleading gesture. "Nothing. I will not hurt you. I will not even touch you. I merely want you to come see me. I want you not to fear me."

"You've kidnapped me," she replied. "I want to go home, and you won't let me."

"Only until you understand that I-I wanted to be more for you."

She shook her head. Christine glanced behind her and shuddered. "I heard voices in there. Whispers. It won't stop."

"I heard nothing," he replied, glancing into her darkened room. All was quiet. "I assure you that we are in a secure place. Nothing will hurt you here. You are safe with Erik."

"I heard voices," she repeated. She looked back and forth in the living room. Her eyes were fixated on the walls. "And why are there so many shadows?" she murmured. Christine took a slow seat on the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. He would have been delighted with her company if not for the strange expression on her face.

"Christine?" he softly asked as he brought her a yellow felt blanket that nearly matched her beautiful hair. She didn't reply. "I like you out here," he stated, wanting nothing more than to reach out and clutch her hand. "All I want is your company."

She stared forward.

"I love you," he told her.

That only made start crying again. She rapidly glanced between the living room and the bedroom. Finally, she curled up on the sofa with her eyes still wide open. Every time he moved, her head would shoot up and she would stare at him with suspicion, poised to flee.

But he never tried to touch her again.

And she uttered only one more sentence that night. A command—

"Don't turn off the light!"


	14. Chapter 14

Sorry for the delay. These kind of transitional chapters are always the most challenging to write. My wedding is also May 31, so there will be some more delays over the next month as I officially gain a Mr. Quiet :)

**Thank you for your support and patience! Read and Review!**

Being around Erik was not as terrifying as being alone.

Because she was completely losing her mind.

Those were the only two facts that she knew. Everything else—Christine couldn't discern between reality and the twisted fantasies of her damaged brain.

After barely speaking to him the entire night, huddled on his couch in a ball, she pled with him again the following morning. Erik had asked her how she liked her eggs. Scrambled? Sunnyside?

"I won't tell anyone about you," she began in a calm voice as her hands trembled beneath the table. "Not the police. I'll visit you. Please let me go home."

"Give me time to help you understand," he replied, keeping his gaze downward as he poured her orange juice. "I care for you so very dearly. Now—what sort of fruit would you like?"

With a sob, she jumped up, knocking the wooden chair over, and ran back to the bedroom. She slammed the door. Once inside, Christine remembered why she'd left. The room had seemed normal at first, even pretty if somewhat bare. But she heard whispers in her head and saw the silhouettes slithering across the walls and floors. And, as she had reclined in the bed, she swore that the floral-printed sheet began to twist itself around her bare ankles. She swore that the bed wanted to devour her. That had been the last straw.

The stress of being a captive was making her crazy. That was the only explanation.

With her knees drawn up to her chest, she remained in the room for twenty minutes. Again, she felt an energy crawl over her skin like tiny ants, and so she emerged. Nowhere was safe.

"Would you like me to play for you?" he asked, glancing up. She barely nodded her head and sat back down on the sofa. Music was the one thing that did help; the notes and melody wrapped her brain in a protective cocoon. She closed her eyes and listened to the violin, feeling safer as she imagined herself to be somewhere else. She remembered Raoul's parents' house at Thanksgiving, around a dinner table with normalcy and savory turkey and pumpkin pie. She remembered Friday night sleepovers with Meg, cinnamon popcorn and cheesy romantic films.

_Please let me see them again._

And yet, even back before all this madness, Christine hadn't felt like she belonged in their world.

Because she had always been a little different - pretending to be normal while always feeling a little odd.

_I could be normal again if I could just get out of here. Raoul makes me saner. Raoul makes me…normal._

When Erik stopped playing, she opened her eyes and stared straight ahead.

"Christine?" he softly asked, the bow dropping to his side.

"Erik," she whispered. "You have to understand that-that I'm not well. That's why I need to go. It has nothing to do with you."

"What do you mean?"

She swallowed, praying that partial honesty would help rather than hurt her. "When I was fourteen, I had a mental breakdown. I got very, very sick. And I think I get sick whenever I'm stressed. And afraid."

"But _why_ are you afraid?"

"Because you've kidnapped me!" she snapped, finally looking at him. "I don't know you!"

"Yes, you do! I am Erik! You have known me for months! You were kind to me! You _cared_ for me! And now…." His voice softened. "Now you hate me. Because you have seen my face. But even before that, you hated me. Why?!"

"I don't hate you. I-" But he was right about everything else. Even before he'd kidnapped her, she'd felt differently toward Erik the second he'd reappeared. There was something crueler and colder about him in these last days. There was something less _human_ about him.

Did she tell him there were voices in her head? Or about the hallucinations? Did she tell him that she was practically schizophrenic?

He would never let her go if he thought she was afraid. That was clear. The crazier she acted, the more Erik seemed determined to never release her. So if she ever wanted to escape, she would have to hide her insanity. And pretend that none of this was really happening.

The lights flickered twice. A vase of red roses browned and withered within the span of an hour.

Christine ignored it even as her heart pounded. Yet she'd do anything to make this all go away. Drugs. Shock therapy. A lobotomy. All of it seemed preferable to living within this sort of world.

_As long as you know you're crazy—at least you have that. The second that you believe any of this is real is the second that you're in big trouble._

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. She picked up a book of poems and pretended to read until he left.

Picking at a garden salad with tomatoes and croutons that afternoon, she softly said, "If you're going to keep me here, you could at least tell me more about yourself."

Erik kept the leather mask on and did not eat a bite. He merely watched her, occasionally asking if she needed anything. Water? A sharper fork? "I have told you everything, my dear."

"You said you moved from place to place as a child. All by yourself. How did you survive?"

"I grew up quickly."

"But how did you eat? Where did you sleep?"

He shrugged. "I need little of sleep or food. You might say I am biologically blessed."

"Did you get an education?"

"An unconventional one."

"Who taught you?"

"An unconventional teacher."

She detected sarcasm in the sentence. Christine ignored it and asked, "And then you went overseas? What did you do? I know you weren't poor there. You weren't homeless."

"You are correct. I learned various trades. And then I learned a great deal about politics and economics in the region. The ins and outs of the oil industry. But, Christine, there was absolutely nothing for me there. Nothing. And so I nearly gave up on life until I found you. That is what I am trying to say. The past does not matter."

"Were you really sick?" she asked. "Or was that some sort of-of trick?"

"Yes, I was very sick."

"With what?" He didn't answer. "With what?" Still, he said nothing. "You lied to me. I thought you needed my help."

He slammed his fists on the table. "I did! You have saved me! You saved Erik!"

Her impulse was to yell back at him, but she fought it. Instead, Christine buried her face in her hands and took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She sensed him standing. "Come here," he said. "Come with me."

"Why?" she asked, glancing up with suspicion.

"Fresh air may help you."

Her heart jumped. She shakily stood and followed Erik to one of the white doors in the living room that had been locked. With a click, he opened it. Dim sunlight and a gust of cold air burst into the room. A surge of adrenaline prepared her to run if the opportunity presented itself. Swallowing, she walked out the door and onto a concrete porch that was the size of a large closet. A grey wall, several inches shorter than her, surrounded them on all four sides. Christine squinted in confusion and slowly walked toward the rough barrier. Erik made no mood to stop her, remaining in the shadows as she stared over the edge.

Her heart fell. Cars moved beneath them on a puddle-filled street. _Andrea's Flower Shop. Big Bob's Pizza House. _Two red neon signs flashed "Open." Beneath them on a sidewalk, a red-headed girl around her age ran up to a guy and said, "Sorry I'm late!" They kissed and walked off together, unaware of the kidnapping victim right above their heads.

They were up at least twenty stories. This was downtown of the nearest city; she could see even taller buildings in the distance, yellow squares of lights against a darkening sky. So much for climbing out windows. Not unless she found a magic broomstick or a radioactive spider. Christine felt dizzy and queasy, the world spinning beneath her. She put a hand to her clammy forehead.

"See, Christine?" he asked, gesturing outward. "We are perfectly safe."

She shuddered and rubbed her arm, knowing there would be no escape. "Thank you, Erik," she murmured. When they returned inside, she crawled beneath the blanket on the sofa, wondering what her next step would be. For a while, she tried to read a book, but that required too much energy. She turned on the television to an 80's sitcom. The channel switched back and forth on its own. Weather channel. Back to the sitcom. MTV. Back to the sitcom.

_Please let me stop being crazy._ Turning off the TV, she sat up straight and closed her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked when he entered. "You are concentrating very hard, my dear."

"Meditating."

He chuckled. "I had an acquaintance who would do that often. Every sunrise. He would get up and meditate."

"Did you ever try?" she asked, finally opening her lids and glancing up.

"No."

"Why not?"

"My mind will never be still," he curtly replied.

"Meditation can help in other ways."

"Sitting in the quiet with my thoughts is no good for anyone, my dear. I prefer to stay busy." He touched his temple with a tilted hand, and the yellow eyes were momentarily distressed. "Yes, Erik must always keep busy." After a second, he turned and walked away as though disturbed by something.

He was not going to injure her. Not soon anyway. The person she had come to know throughout the autumn months was still in there somewhere. At least, she had to believe that. She had to believe that she could eventually reach him and get him to see how wrong this all was.

"You are less scared?" he hopefully asked after he played the violin that evening. "You seem less afraid, Christine?"

"Yes," she replied.

But, then, in her mind-

"_Be terrified of him. He is ugly. He is disgusting. Repulsive. Look at him. He is a monster."_

For a second, Christine wondered if it was her thought. Yet she knew it couldn't be. Her own thought would have gone- "_I'm afraid of him. He's keeping me here against my will. I don't know him. I don't understand him. And being here is making me crazy."_

And yet how could the crueler thought not be hers, too?

The voices.

Shivering, she curled up on the couch. Erik sang her to sleep that night, a slow and gentle French song in a voice that surpassed his speaking one. And that was pure Heaven, a brief escape from this strange Hell.

* * *

><p>"You're positive there's nowhere else she might have gone? A friend? Relative?"<p>

"I don't know that for sure. But she won't answer her phone. She'd never ignore both of us."

The middle-aged officer nodded and jotted something onto a white form. His grey moustache twitched as he asked. "Did she have any reason to be upset? Had she argued with either of you?"

"No," Raoul and Meg both answered at the same time.

Meg added, "She seemed okay during our last conversation. Just a little distracted."

"Distracted how?"

"Um." Meg hesitated. "Busy with school and her music studies, I guess. Like I said, there was that voice teacher. The other voice teacher."

The police station was fairly quiet early that Sunday morning. Someone walked in with Styrofoam cups of coffee, and a phone occasionally rang. An old woman with a walker wanted to report a missing dog and was patiently redirected to the local animal shelters. Winter sun streaked through the dusty windows. Raoul squinted and rubbed his head. He and Meg had been up for most of the night looking for Christine with no luck.

The officers had easily been able to pull up her driver's license, and Raoul confirmed there had been no major changes to her appearance. No, she hadn't gained weight. Maybe lost a tiny bit. No, she hadn't dyed her hair recently. No glasses. No piercings outside of her ears. No tattoos. No unusual markings.

"Does she have any history of mental illness?" Raoul started to say no, but Meg locked gazes with him. He hesitated. The officer glanced between them. "Look. If there's anything like that, we need to look into it. Depression? Did she ever talk about suicide?"

"No! Jesus. It's just-"

Meg took over. "When she was a lot younger, she had something happen. Kind of like hearing voices. But that was a really long time ago. She doesn't have any issues now."

The officer maintained a poker face and continued without comment. "Was she on medication?"

"No," said Raoul. Meg nodded in verification. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Okay. Has she ever wandered off before?"

"No," Raoul murmured. "Never."

"Okay." The officer glanced at his notes. "So the last time that anyone heard from her was about forty-eight hours ago? Is that right?"

"Yeah," said Raoul. The pain in his chest tightened. Each passing hour was more terrifying than the last. "That's right."

"Do you have any other recent photographs?"

"Uh. Yeah. One." Raoul shakily took his brown leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and opened it. Digging through the contents, cards and receipts, he took a shuddery breath and pulled out a picture. "This was taken last summer. We went horseback riding." She smiled at him from the top of a black mare. Christine had jokingly called the horse her 'Black Beauty.' The sight of her made his heart ache.

"That'll work," said the officer, taking the picture. His green eyes softened just slightly when he saw it.

"What will you do now?" asked Meg, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"First, I'm going to enter this information into a national database. That alerts law enforcement around the country."

"That's it?" Raoul asked with an edge in his voice.

"Not necessarily. We'll look into her phone and send a car out to her apartment. But given what you've told me, I can't determine whether your friend just wanted some time to herself. Which is completely legal; she's not a minor. Or whether this is foul play or a mental health concern. If you have any more evidence either way, that's what I need to see."

"What about the guy we told you about? Erik?" asked Meg. "Did that help at all?"

"Only if you can give me more information. A last name? A physical location? Did he ever threaten her?" Raoul and Meg both looked at each other and then shook their heads. "Do you know how many men named Eric there are in the country? Different spellings and whatnot." He must have seen their dejected faces. "Lots of the time, people want to get away. They're stressed or upset. And then they show up in a couple days without injury."

"So we just go home now and wait?" Raoul asked. "That's it?"

"I would keep calling around to any family members or friends you can think of. Or you can try the media," said the officer with a shrug. "But they'll usually only pursue the story if there's something catchy about it. Proof of foul play, in which case we need to know immediately."

"Thanks," Raoul muttered.

"Call me if you think of anything else. We'll see if anything comes in on her phone."

"I will." The officer shuffled his papers and walked away from the desk. Raoul stared at the lime green linoleum tiles. He heard a choking sound and turned to see Meg with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Something's really wrong, isn't it?" she whispered. "Something bad happened to her."

Raoul clenched his jaw. "I'm not going to stop looking till we find her. I know we'll find her."

"Damn it! Why didn't I ask her more about that guy? I knew it sounded weird! I knew it was dangerous! I knew—"

"Meg, we can't waste time hating ourselves right now." He gently put a hand on her shoulder. "This isn't…we can't act like this is our fault. We have to keep looking. If you know anyone who wants to help us, grab them, too. Anywhere you remember her going."

She took a shaky breath and nodded. Tilting her head, she said, "It seems like if people thought it was a mental health thing, they might help us more. And-and now that I think about it, it has to be one or the other, right? The Christine we know wouldn't just leave without a word. She'd feel terrible for making us worry. So she either got sick again. Or-or someone—" Meg choked.

"You might be right about that," Raoul murmured. "One or the other. Maybe I can get my dad to help."

Normally, he didn't like to call upon his connections and privilege. But what better time than now?

Shoulder to shoulder, Raoul and Meg walked back outside, their breaths visible in the morning air.

* * *

><p>"Where did you learn to sing and play the violin?"<p>

"I do not remember."

"You taught yourself?"

"Yes."

"Just like you taught yourself everything else. Then you must be a genius." Her voice was a little cold. Maybe it was the idea that someone so intelligent, someone who should know better, was putting her through this. Then again, the world's brightest people were still capable of terrible things.

He ignored her mood. "I am going out to get us groceries this evening. As well as to retrieve your clothing. What else do you need?"

"Can I come?" she asked far too eagerly.

"No. Maybe another time."

"Why not?"

"You will run from me."

"I don't want to be alone," she said. "I don't feel well when I'm alone."

He hesitated. "Perhaps I could order groceries to be delivered then? Yes, that may be best. But then I cannot retrieve your clothing without difficulty."

She rapidly considered the situation. No, it was better for him to leave than for him to not go at all. It would be an opportunity for her to look for an escape. All that she had to fear while being alone was her own sanity. She shook her head and gathered her courage. "Fine. I'll be okay here by myself."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I do want my own clothes. And please get me something for headaches," she quickly continued before he could change his mind. "And minty floss. And hair bands. And Diet Coke."

"Nothing else to eat?" he asked.

"No. You can decide that." Food didn't even sound appealing.

"Very well. You are certain you will be fine here?"

"Yes." She paused and asked, "Erik, what happened to my phone?"

"You will get it back later. For now—" He held up a small device with a small screen and a single button. "If you are in trouble, push this green button. It will alert me."

"I haven't seen a pager in forever," she muttered. "I wish I had _my_ phone."

Again, he ignored her request and foul mood. After verifying that she would be okay by herself several more times, Erik departed through a door in the kitchen. Her first thought was to try that door ten minutes after he left, pulling and jiggling on the handle…practically throwing herself against the painted wood. _Boom, thud, boom._ Of course, all the doors were firmly locked except for the one that led to 'her' bedroom and a closet. The windows wouldn't budge. She was sealed inside with no sharp tools that would allow her to cut or break through plaster and metal. Twice, she screamed, "Help me! Help me!"

She held her breath and waited. No one ever came.

Christine stepped into the bedroom and braced herself for a swarm of shadows and whispers. She mentally prepared her mind to fight them off.

But there was nothing. Silence except for the heater.

It was then she realized that the entire apartment was still and quiet.

Christine stood there blinking as the enormity hit her. For the first time, her head felt nearly normal. Her thoughts were still. No voices or shadows. Strange. Was it really Erik's presence that made her crazy?

Taking advantage of her newfound sanity, Christine continued her search for answers. There was very little to look at. A few classic novels. Pen and lined paper with some red notes scribbled nearly illegibly. Finally, in a corner of the kitchen, she discovered the book lying closed on the counter. That stupid, awful black book had gotten her into this entire mess.

She slowly picked it up and began to flip through the yellowed pages. Still, Christine couldn't understand a word. Even some of the letters seemed archaic. One corner was bent, and she turned to that page. More words that she couldn't understand hovered over a small drawing. A grey outline of a woman in a long dress, maybe from the 17th or 18th century. Her long, black hair flew wildly out behind her. Another shadowy head and upper torso hovered over her, like a genie that had come out of its lamp. The strange figure's arms were stretched out and its palms faced upward as though beckoning the woman forward. Her head was raised toward the shadow creature as though she were praying to it. Was it some sort of fairy tale scene?

Christine looked at some of the other pictures. Flower designs. Symbols. Every once in a while, she thought a word seemed a little recognizable. _Fortuna. _But most of it was far beyond her.

She sighed and rubbed her temples. She half-heartedly tried the locked doors again. "Help me! Help me! Fire! Murder! Help me!"

Nothing.

She took a two minute shower, her first shower since she'd arrived at that fancy prison. Keeping the door to the bathroom open in case Erik came into the bedroom, she rapidly scrubbed coconut-scented shampoo and soap into her oily hair and sweaty skin, trying to feel like somewhat of a human being again. She finished five minutes before he arrived, throwing on the same clothes in a desperate need to be covered.

With her hair still damp, she returned to the couch and sat down, defeated in her attempts to escape or find some sort of answer. Her only hope was to convince him to let her leave. _And then what? _Grab Raoul and pray that Siberia or Antarctica was nice this time of year? She could hear Erik approaching in her mind before the doorknob turned. Darkly-tinged head tingles. He entered carrying several brown sacks. The shadows and sounds returned with him like some nightmarish orchestra that accompanied his every step. The energy of the entire room shifted when he entered.

Or, rather, she became crazy again.

"Is all well?" he asked, glancing around the room. "Your hair is wet."

"Yes. I washed it," she awkwardly replied.

"Excellent. I have found you clothes and other bathing supplies that women tend to enjoy."

He said 'women' as though they were an entirely different species—but in a reverent way. Like one might talk about elves or fairies. Then Erik cooked her a dinner of medium-well steak and scalloped potatoes, and she was able to eat half of it. He played the violin for her. And then he brought her an off-white china plate with strawberries on a yellow cake. A dollop of whipped cream sat atop it. Instead of immediately handing the dessert to her, Erik stood above her, holding the plate with both hands. She shifted and didn't look him in the eye.

"May I sit by you?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she murmured. He did so and then offered the plate to her. Christine glanced up and took it into slightly trembling hands. She slowly ate the sweet, moist bites, always aware of his presence.

He stared at her. "Is it to your liking?"

"Yes. It's good."

"I bought you these as well." He almost magically produced a small blue velvet box. A bracelet with three square rows of sparkling white diamonds rested inside. She blinked at it, her stomach churning. "Do you like this? Women like jewelry, yes? If not, I can—"

"Yes. I like it."

"So you do not hate me anymore?" he weakly asked, setting the box on the table.

"No, Erik," she whispered. "I don't hate you." Honestly, she was too exhausted to hate anyone. All she wanted was her sanity and freedom back. Christine leaned forward and set the plate down on the table with a soft clink. She licked a couple crumbs off her lips and swallowed. "Everything could be like it was last fall. We'll meet to sing once a week. We'll be good friends."

"What if Erik wants to see you more than once a week?" he asked.

"That's…fine."

"I would prefer you not see that boy again. He is nothing but a distraction. Nothing but a face."

"I—That's not—" She sighed. "Erik, maybe we both need some help."

"No one can help me except you."

"How can I help?" Frustration finally entered her voice. "What do you want me to do? What do you want from me?"

"Simply be with me. It is so simple, so little. Yet your presence makes it all so much more bearable."

A cold breeze emerged from nowhere and brushed against her hair. A shadow kissed her cheek.

She wasn't sane. Sane people didn't see, hear, or feel these things.

And sane people didn't kidnap young girls because they were lonely.

They were _both_ very sick. And with that thought she found some real empathy. They were both mentally unwell.

He slowly lifted his hand and placed it beside hers on the sofa. Erik touched the edge of her thumb with the tips of his cold fingers. She didn't pull away.

Another foreign thought grazed her mind—_He's disgusting. Tell him you hate him. Scream at him. Curse him!_

"No!" she said out loud, jerking forward and putting her face in her hands. "It's not real. No, no, no."

"No?" Erik asked. She only shook her head, her face still buried. When she glanced up, he had left her. She'd probably made things worse again.

Later that evening, after Erik had returned to the kitchen, she turned on the television for a distraction from the strangeness. As she flipped through the lower channels, her hand froze over the buttons of the remote control. Her heart leaped into her throat.

There was Raoul on Channel 4 News, in a bulky black jacket with the wind blowing his blond hair slightly to the side. The expression of fear on his face hurt her heart. "I know she wouldn't have run off," he said toward the camera, his voice catching. "Something is wrong. And we're begging for your help in finding her. She's either not well or someone has taken her. If you've seen her, please call."

_You're right on both accounts, Raoul. Oh…._

A tear streamed down her cheek. She sensed Erik approaching and attempted to turn off the television before he could see her boyfriend.

But it was too late.

Erik silently stared at the blank screen. She looked at the carpet.

"Perhaps it would be best if we left this entire area," he stated, coldness creeping into his beautiful voice. "Perhaps there are far too many distractions here."

Her head whipped toward him. "No," she whispered. "Please no. Please let's go back to how things were. _Please._"

"We will see," was all Erik said.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you so much for all your kind comments and good wishes. I took a lot of time off work, which allowed me to get some writing done. So here is a fairly long chapter for you. And Chapter 16 will take us toward a hopefully very exciting midway climax ;)**

**Read and Review!**

She was terrified that Raoul's television appearance would result in Erik taking her far away.

But when he approached her in the morning, he only asked, "Will you sing for me? As you used to…."

An inaudible sigh of relief escaped her lips. "Yes," she replied, setting down a novel about love during World War I. Singing was an easy way to please him - a way that didn't rely on more lies. She sang her recital piece while he played the violin. It was beautiful, of course, and the notes temporarily suppressed the shadows.

And it reminded her of the days when she'd actually trusted him.

She remembered the red notes and cautiously asked, "Do you write your own music?"

"Occasionally. I did long ago. And then I stopped. And I had nearly given up all music before you. My hands…."

"Can I hear it?"

He shook his head and turned toward his violin case. "No. Not today. It is not pleasing to the ear. Not harmonious. Not like you."

She sighed but didn't argue. Another long day of captivity stretched out before her, and she felt no closer to escape. After wringing her hands together, Christine started to go back to her book. But about twenty minutes later, he softly asked, "Would you like to take a walk this evening?

Christine glanced up so sharply that a pain shot through her neck. "Yes, please," she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Of course, he easily read her thoughts. "If you run from me-"

"I won't. I swear to God I won't."

Of course she would if it were possible. But she also wouldn't do anything stupid. As winter's early darkness settled over the city, she slipped on an older purple coat that Erik had delivered. She put up the hood and slid on a new pair of black wool gloves. Her heart hammered rapidly, and she hated how much she had to depend on him.

Erik dressed in a long black coat. He silently stood before her, tall and thin, frightening yet regal. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Her voice was scratchy. They exited through the door in the kitchen and then walked down several flights of linoleum tiles and iron stairs, their footsteps echoing through the vertical corridor. The complex seemed nearly empty. Maybe Erik had chosen one that had lost most of its tenants during the recession. No one would hear her pleas for help, that was for sure.

The evil voice spoke to her: _"Run from the monster. It might be your only chance. He's disgusting. Why would you subject yourself to it any longer?"_

She forced it away and tried to think rationally. What would she do? Duck into the nearest building and pray that someone had a phone? Scream? Fly off into the night?

Erik opened a glass door for her and gestured forward. With wide eyes, she stepped outside for the first time in days. The cold air felt good on her cheeks. She inhaled the scents of pizza and car exhaust and life. The streets and sidewalks had a light dusting of snow, and yellow Christmas lights were strung across some of the roofs and drainpipes.

"Choose Annabelle's Bakery for All Your Holiday Pies and Cakes!"

"Give Your Wife the Gift She Deserves. A One-Time Only Holiday Sale at Bernard and Co.'s Jewelry Emporium."

How would she ever escape when he was constantly watching her?

_I wonder if Annabelle or Bernard can help me._

The wry thought passed through her mind. It looked like many places were beginning to close for the evening. Glancing back and forth, she followed Erik down the sidewalk. While the darkness still accompanied him, it felt less constricting in the wide open space.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Erik softly asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I love being outside."

"I do want you to be happy."

She could have given a harsh and unkind reply. Instead, Christine only said, "I know."

He stopped walking. She looked up and saw that they were in front of _Andrea's Flower Shop_. "What-?"

"Choose some flowers for our home," stated Erik. "Perhaps they will improve your health. Whatever you like. Do not be concerned with the cost."

She slowly nodded, glanced at him briefly, and then walked inside. The door jingled. Erik followed but remained near the back, concealed in the shadows of a corner. Sweet scents flooded her nostrils in the warm and dim shop that could have held no more than fifteen people. Flower arrangements in vases sat on both sides, and a rack of greeting cards stood at the front. After about ten seconds, an older man with glasses and a grey moustache appeared at the front counter. Likely not Andrea.

"Hello! What can I do for you today?" asked the man with the touch of an accent that she couldn't identify. He smiled slightly, reminding her of a kindly grandfather out of a fairy tale or Disney movie. He didn't seem to notice Erik.

She stared into the old man's blue eyes, wondering if he could help her. If she screamed and threw herself at him? If she subtly wrote him a note?

But what if Erik hurt him? Something told her this older man was no match for her captor.

"What are you looking for?" he asked. "A bouquet? A particular flower?"

"Oh. Um. Uh. Roses," she nearly coughed out. "I'd like some red and pink roses. And tulips."

"Not sure if we have tulips now. But I check."

"Thank you," she whispered as he disappeared again. With trembling hands, she started to look at other flowers. Some of the blossoms appeared less healthy than they had minutes ago.

And the voice,_ "Tell him that a monster has you. Scream. This might be your only chance, you know?"_

Red and purple pansies wilted right in front of her.

Christine put a hand over her mouth and stepped backward.

The man returned. "No tulips now. Sorry. Something else?" he asked hopefully.

She stared at him for a moment. Her lips trembled. She could feel Erik's gaze burning into her back. "I-I-I'd like some of the white lilies," she said. "And—" She paused as something occurred to her. "And the pansies," she choked out, pointing at them.

The man nodded, smiled, and glanced at the flowers.

Then, to her horror and relief, he frowned.

"Huh. Oh no. They do not look so good now, do they? That's very strange." He scratched his balding head and walked over to them. His wrinkled hands examined the petals and leaves. He tsked. "Have to check the heat in here. But you do not want these, right?" He turned to look at her. "Right, Ma'am? Something else?"

But Christine was nearly in a trance.

Because reality and insanity again came far too close to blending together.

"I'd like some Poinsettias," she finally whispered. "For Christmas."

He nodded. "Great! Yes, I will get you lots of those. Perfect for Christmas."

"Thank you."

"How will you be paying?" he asked.

Before she could answer, Erik spoke, "That has been taken care of."

Startled, the florist glanced to the back and frowned. His eyes narrowed and then widened. "Oh. Yes. You are her. Yes. All arranged then." He shuddered slightly. "They will be ready the day after tomorrow."

"We will retrieve them," stated Erik. His voice was much less pleasant when he spoke to other people - calm with the vaguest hint of a threat in every word.

She would not put this poor man in danger.

"Fine choices, my love," Erik stated in a kinder tone as they left. She said nothing as they returned to the apartment, entering the building and walking back up the long flight of stairs. He closed the door, and she was entrapped once again.

But then Erik said, "That was delightful. We will go for more of these walks. They do improve your color."

At least she'd proven that she was trustworthy. More opportunities would come. Until that one day when she would finally take the chance and run. As the evil voice wanted her to do….

After a dinner of baked chicken with lemon sauce and buttered green beans, she took her familiar place on the sofa.

"You do not ever wish to sleep in your bedroom?" Erik asked.

"No."

"Why? Why do you dislike your room? Do you wish for new furniture? Or paint?"

She shrugged, unwilling to tell him the real reason. And then asked, with a touch of sarcasm, "Don't you want me out here with you, Erik?"

He blinked. "Of course, my love. I merely want you to enjoy your room. It is for you. Your other home."

She shrugged and thought back to the flowers again. And wondered….

"Erik? Do you remember when that man said the pansies had wilted?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"I thought I saw them wilt," she murmured. "I mean they wilted really, really fast."

A pause. "Perhaps the conditions in the store were not right for them."

"But it didn't seem normal…."

He tilted his head. "What did not, my dear?"

He was going to think she was crazy and afraid again.

"Nothing. Never mind. It's not important."

They sat there in the quiet until Erik left the room. She turned on the television and flipped to the news. Raoul was once again on same channel, pleading for help. She muted the TV but watched her boyfriend with an ache in her heart. His eyes were red, tired, and desperate. _I hope there's something left of me by the time you see me again. I can't tell what's real anymore, Raoul. Except for you. You and Meg are both real. At least I know that._

Turning off the television, she stood and wandered into the kitchen, searching for answers when she didn't even know the questions. She found the black book and picked it up, flipping through the tattered pages again. She felt Erik come in behind her.

Christine didn't care. In fact, she'd wanted him to catch her.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"What is this?"

"I told you. I understand little of it. I simply have a fondness for old books."

"What is it?" she again asked, looking him in the eye. "You must know something about it. If you wanted it that badly, you must understand a little bit."

He hesitated, and his fingers wiggled at his sides. "It is an old book of spells. Nonsense, of course. But of entertainment."

"Spells? Really? Can you explain any of it to me?"

"It is all nonsense."

"Please," she softly pled. "Just for fun. I like old books, too. And fairy tales. And I did help you get it, right?" She sweetened her voice.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"Well…." She flipped to a page with a crude drawing of a candle. "Do you know what this says?"

He sighed and glanced at it. With a bony finger, he pointed to the top of the right page. "This one is supposedly for youth." He flipped a few yellowed pages forward. "And these are various forms of revenge." Another couple of pages. "Exorcisms here. There are some for the weather. Some for fortune. Some for…love. All of it absurd."

She gently reached out and turned to the page with the woman and the shadow. "And this?" The energy in the room hummed. Her heart pounded.

Erik visibly twitched. "A sort of bargain."

"For what?"

"For—It is nonsense, Christine."

"For what?" she again asked.

"For anything you want."

"Like a genie?"

"Yes, just like a genie," he replied in a soft and wry voice. "Like the lovely fairy tales you were read as a child. With a happily ever after and everything else." With a tug, Erik took the book from her and nearly slammed it closed. She started. "That is enough of this now. It is late."

She nodded and obediently left him there. But her veins buzzed with that energy. And despite spending hours telling herself that her crazy brain was merely imagining things, Christine couldn't shake the feeling that-

_He knows something._

* * *

><p>He asked her what she desired for breakfast, and Christine answered, "Cereal."<p>

"That is all? You would not like something more substantial." He did not want her to lose any more weight. And perhaps deep down, he knew that her pallor and the dark circles around her ocean-blue eyes were his fault. She was not well.

He was a monster.

"No. Just cereal and milk, please."

He retrieved o-shaped cereal for her and then sat across from her, wishing to admire her as he always did during her meals. He loved watching the spoon touch her pink lips and how she daintily wiped her mouth with a napkin. How was he ever supposed to let her go? Everything she did made him despise being born slightly less. She was the antithesis to his constant companion.

To his disappointment, after taking several lovely bites, she began to interrogate him again.

"Where were you born?"

"What?"

"Where were you born?"

"The Midwest. A dull region with nothing but corn and farmland."

She studied him as she took another bite. "And then-then your parents gave you up for adoption? Right after you were born?"

"No. I was raised by a great aunt for several years."

"Oh." She blinked and leaned in slightly. "What was her name?"

It took him a moment to reply. He had not uttered the name in decades, and it belonged to another time. "Irene."

"Was she nice?"

"She did her best with what she was handed."

"But she gave you up?"

"I ran from her," Erik replied. He then wondered if he should have lied. Especially as her mouth twisted into a confused frown.

"But you were just a child."

"Yet old enough to know what was best for everyone involved," he said.

"What happened to her?"

"She simply died of old age." Which was much more preferable to his great aunt being roasted alive in her own house. He remembered the brief moment of relief he'd felt as a small boy. Hidden behind a grove of maple trees, he had turned around to make sure that Irene emerged unharmed from the inflamed home. Indeed, the thing released her from the oven, and she had gone on to live many more years.

Away from horror. Away from him.

From that moment on, he had trusted the thing to fulfill each part of its dark agreements. _It _had never lied to him.

"I still don't understand why you would run away," she said. "You were a child. Someone should have taken care of you."

There was a small part of him that wanted to tell her everything.

Just so she would understand his burden—understand why he was a vile freak of nature. Just so she would _understand._

But he would terrify her with his horror stories. Or she would think he was completely insane.

Either way, nothing good could come of that.

He remembered the last time he had interacted with the fairer sex. Although the circumstances had been entirely different.

"_You can really get my husband and son out of prison? You can really save them from death? No. No, that's impossible. The government said-"_

"_But I can. I can permanently protect your entire family and destroy your enemies in a single day."_

"_R-Really?"_

"_Yes. But there is a price…"_

"_Anything!"_

_He'd leaned in. "Anything at all?"_

"_Yes! Money! My entire home. I-" Her dark brown eyes gazed over him. With less conviction, she had shakily added, "I'll sleep with you, if you want. Please. Anything."_

_He had chuckled coldly. "I won't ask you to do something that disgusting."_

"_Then what?" she'd whispered, both her hands clutching the collar of a shiny pine green blouse that looked beautiful against her olive skin. "What do you want from me?"_

"_Have you ever experienced magic, dear girl? The beyond? Sorcery? Do you believe in it?"_

"_Well, I-I have seen things that can't be explained by—Well—" She'd nibbled on her bottom lip and glanced at the ground. "Would you think I'm crazy if I said I did believe?"_

"_No, dear girl. I'd think you were absolutely perfect."_

And he remembered what had happened toward the end of that year, as the shadows swirled like tornadoes made of black ink and the thing cackled victoriously in his mind. He had grabbed onto what little remained of his diminishing self and soul. And he had screamed at her-

"_Do you want your next child or grandchild or—hell!- great-great grandchild to be a monster for his entire life? To be a slave and a goddamned freak? Do you want him to look like this?!" He had ripped off his mask, towering over her as she cowered below._

_Down on her knees against the fluffy white carpet, her black curls falling into her face, the woman had only blinked up at him with tear-filled eyes._

_A pause._

"_Like what?" she had shakily asked, tilting her head. "Like what? What do you mean? There is nothing wrong with you."_

_As bile collected at the back of his throat, he had dropped the mask and run his hands over his bare face. And then he had raced to the bathroom and stared into a mirror. And he had wept and collapsed to the cold tiles._

_The thing had spoken to him very gently, like a father to a son-"You are nearly there, Erik. So very close, my friend. Your suffering is nearly at an end. Let me take it from here."_

_And then Alexander had walked into the locked room without effort. And his voice blended with the voice of the thing as they seemed to become one. They were one. "It's nearly over Erik. Finish it. Finish it with the girl, and it will all be over. This burden of humanity will be done."_

_He had hidden himself away for two days, his memories and thoughts and sense of self fading into nothing._

_Perhaps it was better that way._

But, in the end, he'd had too much pride to let _it_ completely win. And so his newly handsome face had literally melted away as his sense of self returned.

Yet he also could not let _it _lose without destroying himself; that much was clear. Not if he wanted his precious Angel.

A happy medium he would be. Hahaha. A few murders each year to keep the thing somewhat satisfied. A few crimes to keep himself from being monstrous.

Hidden by the wall of the kitchen, he watched her drink a cup of mint herbal tea on the sofa. She was so lovely.

Did he disappear with her? Before others began to interfere with their divine love?

He wanted to. But he did not want to make her cry again. And he disliked the way her eyes would glance back and forth at the walls. She would shudder every so often and look over her shoulder. She would twitch as though something were tickling the back of her neck. She was not entirely well here.

Perhaps she feared he would harm her. If only she knew he would never, ever.

He would soon have to prove that she was no prisoner. He wanted her to glow with health again.

And she would have to prove that she would return to him.

And once she loved him, he would be well. He would be able to survive his sorry excuse for a life with her at his side.

And, while the Other would always be there as well, perhaps the three of them could find some semblance of happiness.

* * *

><p>When she awoke the next morning, flowers were positioned throughout the living area and kitchen. The colorful red blossoms brightened the rooms.<p>

But the delight only lasted for about an hour before they began to wilt. The petals withered, curled, and fell to the carpet and tables like bloody teardrops. The sight only made her situation more disturbing. Erik quickly cleaned up the mess and took them from the room, muttering about the temperature and moisture level. She didn't say anything.

He took her out again the following two evenings. Once, they simply walked around the dim and empty blocks. The other time, he allowed her to buy fried rice and sweet orange chicken at a Chinese restaurant. She always considered running or attempting to pass a note to someone. But his yellow eyes were always upon her.

Before they returned home on the second night, she spotted a newspaper in a yellow rectangular container. The top and front headline was about international affairs. But the one below that read—"Search Continues for Missing Girl; Possible Mental Health Concerns."

Erik saw it as well. He grunted. "Persistent, isn't he? Making up lies so that they will continue to search for you. What a nuisance."

_It's not a lie now. _"He's just worried about me," she replied as they went inside and climbed the stairs. "He's scared I'm hurt. Or worse. Wouldn't you be if you were him?"

"I am not him!" Erik snapped.

"No. You're certainly not," she agreed. "But wouldn't you be worried if I disappeared?"

He didn't answer her, eyes on the ground as he silently walked upward. Her footsteps echoed.

_Hate him. He is vile. Disgusting._

She ignored the voice. She had become better at doing that with each passing day. Yet questions lingered in her mind.

Erik knew something. Something very important. She sensed this even while telling herself that it was just her paranoia.

He was still staring at the floor when they reached the strange apartment. She followed him inside. Christine started to go into the living room but then, with his back toward her, Erik spoke.

"Well," he said in a strange voice, almost like that of a little boy. "You have not tried to run from me. I thought you might. But you have not."

She hesitated as he turned toward her with pained eyes, sensing the importance of this moment. He nearly seemed weaker. Yet she also felt a strong pang of sympathy. With his slumped posture, Erik reminded her of the 'old man' she had first met. She had cared about that man. With a shuddery breath, as they stood in the middle of the half-empty living area, she took his hand. He sharply glanced down, then back at her, then back down. She heard him sigh behind the mask.

"Erik." She cleared her throat and swallowed. "I know—I know you didn't mean it to get like this…to go this far. With me. Right? You wanted it to be different."

He slightly shook his head. "No. I never wanted this. I wanted you to want to be here. With Erik."

"We were friends," she gently continued. "We cared about each other." The shadows darkened. A cold breeze hit her face.

_He wants to touch you. He wants your body. All over you. He's disgusting. Hate him._

She used all her willpower to ignore her crazy. She would not ruin this. Not now.

Erik looked at her again. There was more humanity in his eyes than she had seen since before all of this madness. "You cared about me?" he asked.

"Of course, Erik. Don't you remember how hard I tried to make you get help? I brought you food. You seemed so sick. Of course I cared."

"You pitied me."

"At times. But…." She bit back tears. "It was more than that. I-"

As the words left her lips, all the lights in the apartment snapped out. She jumped, suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread. A feeling that they were not definitely not alone. Her heart hammered.

"Erik?" she squeaked.

"The power," he said. "Do not worry. It is nothing but poor wiring." Yet she heard a strange edge in his tone.

The voice in her head became even stronger. It began to say horrible and very obscene things. Chilling words concerning forced sex and gruesome murder—what Erik would do to her if she stayed any longer. Christine gripped the sides of her head and fell to her knees with a moan. "Oh God."

"Christine?" asked Erik with genuine concern.

She forced all her energy into clearing her mind as a therapist had once taught her to do. Trapped in a cloud of darkness, no longer a part of the real world, she spoke aloud to drown out the horror.

"One. I'm smart," she said.

"What?" asked Erik. "Yes. You are, my dear…."

"Two. I'm good at music. Three—I have good friends who love me. Four—I'm physically well. Five…five…." She gasped and released a sob. "Five."

"Five," softly said Erik from above. "Five—you are very kind."

She flinched when a hand touched the top of her shoulder and realized that her eyes were squeezed closed. An orange glow illuminated the darkness. She opened her lids. The lights were back on.

Erik stood over her, staring down with worry. "See? All is well," he stated. "Simply an electrical issue. The maintenance here is sometimes poor. We will not be here forever."

She weakly nodded and took a shaky breath before looking back at the carpet. A cold sweat had formed on her forehead. There were still shadows, but they had receded slightly. Erik stepped into the kitchen and retrieved a cup of cold water for her. She thanked him and quickly gulped it down. Her hands were still trembling. "Will you play the violin?" she quickly asked.

"Of course, my love. Of course."

She slept in a tight ball on the couch, shivering, until Erik called her into the kitchen for breakfast. He made her a bowl of cereal. Instead of sitting across from her as he normally did, staring at her for hours, he remained standing. She nervously took a bite, watching as the circle-shaped grains floated in the milk.

Finally, Erik spoke. "The boy was on television again."

She took a deep breath and braced herself. "He's worried. He probably thinks I'm…." Her voice tapered off. "Hurt badly."

"Yes. Well." Another long pause followed, and she was terrified that he was going to announce that they were leaving. Her hands trembled, and she could feel the blood drain from her face. What if he took her out of the country? How would she ever escape then? "Yes. Well, I have decided that it would be best for you to attend to your affairs. Reassure your friends of your wellbeing. Improve your health a bit. You may require more sunlight than Erik is able to give you at this time."

Christine dropped the spoon into the bowl with a loud clink, sending milk splashing onto the table. "Really?" she whispered, her heart about to pound into her throat. "Really?"

"Yes. You will return to me often?"

"Yes. I swear I will. I promise."

"So we will see. If you come to see me as you promise, you can finish your education here. End your relationship with that irritating Chagny boy; he can offer you so little. You will see that soon—how insignificant he is. And then, when no one is concerned about you, we will move somewhere perfect. A large home with a garden. A balcony. And a grand piano. Anything you desire."

She bobbed her head up and down. "Yes, Erik. That sounds very nice. When-when do I go back home?"

"This evening. But you will return to me soon?" he pressed.

"Yes."

"You will not tell anyone of this? Not that boy? Not the authorities? They will never find me. But I will always find you."

"I won't. I swear I won't."

He shakily nodded, fingers curling. "And you will keep some of your belongings here for when you visit Erik?"

"Yes."

"Then it is settled."

She was terrified that he would change his mind that day. Each minute crept by like an hour as she read or listened to him play. He would study her closely. And he would say things like, "I will miss you here."

But he never changed his mind.

And maybe…maybe things might have been okay if the next incident hadn't happened. She might have tried to keep her promise at least for a little while. She might have searched for some miraculous solution.

But, as before, it was an act of kindness that sent her down another path of horror.

After her jacket, hat, and gloves were on—she waited by the door for him to take her home. And waited and waited. He hesitated as he came to stand beside her.

With a swallow, she leaned forward and lightly embraced his thin frame. Both for his peace of mind. And to free herself. He moaned in utter delight, his body limp and frail beneath her arms. For a moment, the simple act nearly felt comforting. Healing. _Maybe everything would be okay._

But then her upper head brushed against the lower part of his temple. Just briefly. Yet long enough to cause visions to flash in the center of her mind. Utter terror engulfed her brain, colors and sounds. She saw murder, various strangers being strangled to death. She saw the horrified face of Joe and then watched the life drain from his familiar eyes. She heard choked screams. She saw purplish skin and slack jaws and blank gazes.

And then there were other things that she couldn't explain. Random visions. Under a bright sun, a foreign soldier fired a gun at Erik. Erik merely watched and chuckled as the bullet fell at his feet. A handsome man with black eyes smiled coldly. In a lavish room with colorful murals painted on the walls, the same strange man read from a book as papers flew throughout the room in a tornado of wind. A pretty dark-skinned woman shrieked and fell to the floor.

Another vision - the handsome man screamed at Erik in a language Christine couldn't understand. But his voice was very angry. Waving his fist, he then shouted in English, _"Erik, you idiot! You ruined everything!"_ And then the man jumped forward and slit the throat of the woman. Red blood gushed from the crescent-shaped wound and dripped from her lips. Christine never saw if Erik reacted to that.

She didn't want to know.

She jerked back. Christine stumbled and caught her balance, desperately grasping for reality. The visions disappeared.

Erik's eyes opened. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh, Christine." He was too happy to notice her expression.

_Was it real?_

She knew it was.

"No one has ever done that before," Erik continued. "No one ever."

"Erik," she whispered, placing all her questions into those two syllables. Fear strangled her. Yet the need to escape kept her quiet. And so she didn't again ask—_What are you?_ _What the hell are you, Erik?_

She only said, "Are you ready to go?"

He nodded. His eyes were still so delighted. Because she had hugged him.

He thought she was coming back.

But Christine knew she would spend the rest of her life running and running and running….


	16. Chapter 16

Hi all! Thank you for your comments. The wedding went wonderfully. Our honeymoon won't be for another year, but we're hoping to go to Europe. And, yes, Paris is a must see :)

So this chapter is a giant ball of angst. I don't expect you to necessarily agree with Christine's choices, but I think we can agree that she has valid reasons for making bad choices and/or losing her grip on reality. We still have a long ways to go, probably 30 to 35 chapters, so plenty of time for character development.

**Read and Review!**

She thought Erik would go with her, but he didn't. A shiny yet inconspicuous black car was waiting by the curb next to the apartment complex. The sun had just descended, and pointed shadows engulfed the sidewalks as streetlights flashed on. With a small bag of her belongings hanging at her side, she stared at the vehicle, terrified that something would go wrong. Erik held an object out to her; it took all of her willpower to keep from flinching backward.

A phone. She swallowed and slowly took it. Could he track her? "Where's my—"

"I disposed of it so that the authorities could not trace you. That phone contains all of your electronic belongings so to speak—contacts and photographs and those terrible ringtones." It sounded as though he were smiling behind the mask.

"Oh." The phone felt cold in her palm.

"I will give you time to settle in," said Erik, standing in the shadows with his hands hidden behind his back. "Recover a bit. End things with him. Yes?"

"Yes, Erik," she whispered.

"You look so lovely," he murmured. "I will miss you terribly. Having you with me was of great comfort." A pause. "In several days, I will call you with instructions on how to visit me. If you want to see me sooner—" His voice nearly cracked. "You are of course welcome to do so. The number is in there. Leave a message."

Despite the horror of it all, she again felt a tug of sympathy in her heart. The yellow eyes were pained. Maybe Erik was a murderer. Maybe he was a monster out of fairy tales or a villain out of a comic book. Maybe he was something too horrible to contemplate. But he was not completely bad. She sensed this at a deep level—the good within him.

And she didn't want to hurt him. She remembered what he had done for her that semester, and she truly didn't want to cause him pain.

But she could never come back. Whatever Erik was, she was too clueless and terrified to handle it. She couldn't help him. And he was fully capable of hurting her.

She looked up at him, hoping her betrayal wasn't evident in her eyes.

"Goodbye, my love."

"Goodbye, Erik."

She climbed inside and closed the door, plopping her bag on the carpeted floor. The interior was grey, soft, and smelled of newness. As the car pulled away, the humming in her mind ceased, and the shadows vanished. There were no more voices, no more terror. As when Erik left the apartment, all the darkness went with him.

The world became normal again. A sob of relief and fear escaped her lips. Christine covered her mouth with her hand and stared out the window as the world passed her, buildings with a few yellow squares of light. A homeless guy sleeping at a bus stop and covered in a newspaper. A couple of teenage boys trying to hide their cans of beer in their jackets. Even the less pleasant parts of normal human life seemed beautiful. Tears ran down her cheeks.

The grey-haired driver was a man of few words, only glancing at her every so often in the rearview mirror. Once in a while, he would mutter something like, "This crazy traffic will never let up. Wish they'd stop messing around with the roads. Can't go anywhere without road construction anymore."

She hummed in absentminded agreement, twisting her hands in her lap. For a while, there was rural land, farms and empty fields with brown grass. Once, she thought she spotted a grazing deer, its black eyes momentarily illuminated by the headlights. Her heart finally leapt as they approached a familiar café and the aging stone buildings of the university. A few Christmas lights were strung along the roofs of closed campus shops and restaurants. She wanted to jump out and run toward them.

_But you can't stay here long._

The terrifying thing was that she didn't even know where she'd be by this time tomorrow. On a flight to Australia or Japan?

No, she didn't know what kind of paperwork would be required for that, and Christine didn't want to draw attention to herself. She'd never even been out of the country. _Pathetic little Christine. How are you ever going to survive on your own?_ She forced the negative thoughts away.

Maybe Alaska or Hawaii or Puerto Rico? Did she need special documents to get into any of those? Frantic thoughts flooded her mind. How much did she have in savings? Could she get a ticket this late? How long could she survive out there? How hard would it be to find work? How much could she put on a credit card? Could Erik track a credit card?! She could waitress for a little while maybe….

Suddenly, she was staring at her apartment building. The car had stopped. "Here," said the driver, glancing back at her. "Right?"

It took her several seconds to speak. "Right….Do I p-pay you?"

"No, sweetheart. That's all taken care of. You have a good evening."

"Thank you." Cold air rushed in as she opened her door. It all felt entirely surreal. She walked forward, her breath visible in the remaining light. A slight dusting of snow lingered on her porch. When she reached it and turned around, the car was gone. She could hear no chimes in her head. She was finally alone.

_Now what?_

After finding her keys in her bag of belongings, Christine opened the door with a soft squeak. She flipped on a light and blinked several times. The furniture and TV screen were dusty, and the room smelled a little stale. Yet everything looked the same otherwise. A few books and papers from the last semester lingered on the coffee table. Some dirty dishes sat on the sink and counter. The clock read 7:23 PM.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, running her hands over her perspiring face. "Okay. Get it together. You have to move fast."

Christine longed to see the comforting and familiar faces of Raoul and Meg. She missed her boyfriend and best friend terribly and wanted a pair of warm arms and words of comfort. She wanted help and to be relieved of this lonely burden. But what if they were hurt or killed? They already thought she was missing. Maybe they even thought she was dead. Was it better for them if they thought that forever? Another sob escaped her lips as she considered how isolated she would be. Panic that tasted of bile rose up in her throat.

She wanted her father.

With shaking hands, she slowly sat down on the sofa and began to search the Internet for taxi, bus, and plane times. She compared prices, still wondering if would be safe to use a credit card. There was no choice, though. What was she going to do? Walk to the west coast and swim in the Pacific Ocean?

She bought a plane ticket to Hawaii with a departure time of 6:35 AM. It was expensive, but who cared about debt now? Who cared about any normal things when there was dark sorcery in the world? She'd figure out the rest of her travel plans later. Homelessness was better than shadows that whispered evil things in her ear, and bed sheets that wrapped around her ankles.

She began to hurl things into an old leather blue suitcase, clothes and toiletries. And then, crying, she began to tear through her father's remaining boxes. She grabbed old photographs of him and them both together, a Halloween picture with him as a magician and her as a blue fairy. She chose a few of his old books and records, wanting all of them but knowing she couldn't be weighed down. Maybe she should leave a note for Raoul and Meg asking them to take care of her father's possessions. But then they'd know she was alive….

Christine grabbed an old stuffed rabbit she'd had as a little girl, Mr. Hoppy, the yellow bunny in blue jean overalls. Most of his whiskers were missing. As she picked him up and started to toss him in her suitcase, she noticed something tucked into the front of his clothes. It was a white folded piece of paper with lines, and she could see her father's writing on it. He'd always had better handwriting than most boys she knew. With shaking hands, she opened the note.

_My beautiful daughter,_

_This is incredibly hard for me._

_I meant to tell you this long ago. But, when you became ill, I didn't want to frighten you even more. Then I meant to tell you before I died, but I still couldn't. I didn't want you to feel afraid or powerless. Because you're not. Your father, who loves you more than anything in this world, is also a giant coward—_

The front door opened behind her with a sharp squeak. The note fell from her hand, and Christine whirled around with a shout of surprise, expecting to see a pair of angry yellow eyes. Relief and fear overcame her as she stared at the doorway.

Her boyfriend slowly stepped into the room, his mouth halfway open.

"Is it really you?" Raoul whispered, his arms limp at his sides. He looked like he'd lost some weight, his heavy black jacket and jeans looser on his frame.

"What are you doing here?" she shakily asked, slowly standing from where she'd been kneeling. The note vanished from her thoughts.

"I drive by every day and night. And the lights were on. I thought maybe Meg…. And…To see…. _Jesus Christ!_ Jesus Christ, Christine!" A near sob escaped his lips. "What am _I_ doing here? Christine, where have you been?!"

"I just—I've been away for a while." She had not prepared herself for this. She had no answers.

"Where?" he pressed. They slowly approached each other.

"Just away. On a little tr-trip." Her voice caved in on itself.

"And you couldn't tell me that? Answer a phone call? Leave a note?" He spread out his hands. "I thought you were dead! I called the police! I thought you were dead!"

"Don't yell at me! You don't even know what I've been through!"

"So tell me! Where the hell have you been?!"

"Stop yelling at me! I told you I've been away. Away! Away! Away!" And then she broke down, burying her face into her hands and weeping so hard that her entire body shook. The part of her brain that could still think rationally told her there would be consequences to her emotional outburst. But that part of her mind was completely silenced by the weight of fear and despair.

Raoul stared at her with his mouth half open, his eyes red and moist. Slowly, he walked over to her. He embraced her so tightly that it nearly hurt, his cheek pressed against the top her head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't meant to- I just, I thought you were dead, Christine. I thought I'd never see you again. I can't believe you're really here."

"I can't believe I am either. But you don't know. You don't know!"

He held her, and they cried together for several minutes. Then they silently walked to the sofa and collapsed onto the soft cushions. Raoul held her as she stared off to the side. He took a shuddery breath and then said, "I should call Meg. And the police. And tell them you're okay. I mean, are you okay?"

"Yes," she lied. "And you can tell them I'm okay. But—" She swallowed and looked at him as an ache engulfed her chest. "But then I have to go, Raoul. I'm leaving tomorrow morning. And I might never come back."

"What?" He lurched backward. "Where are you going?"

"Far away."

"Why? Christine, what's going on? Where have you been this entire time?"

"It doesn't matter." Her hands were clenched as she tried to believe the words coming out of her mouth. "I have to go, or everything will be a mess. People will get hurt. I'll lose my mind. I have to go."

Raoul rubbed his temple with his palm. "Where are you going?"

"It's not safe for you to know." She jumped up from the couch and ran back to her suitcase, tossing in a couple of towels and washcloths. She felt like she was walking through a tunnel. Her flight to Hawaii was illuminated on the other end. Her only goal in life was to make it to that flight.

"Christine!" Her boyfriend was standing and staring at her like she was insane.

Maybe she was.

She dragged her heavy suitcase toward the ajar door even though her cab wouldn't be there for hours.

"Christine!" He gently grabbed her arm. "I don't understand any of this! What's going on with you?"

"We have to break up now," she whispered. At least she fulfilled that part of Erik's wishes.

"Christine—"

"I have to go."

"Sweetheart—"

"My cab will be here." She couldn't stop the tears from falling. "I have to go away."

With a sad shake of his head, Raoul hugged her again. "Christine? Tell me what happened to you."

She half-heartedly struggled, clawing at his shirt like a kitten. "I have to go! I have to go!" For the second time within the span of an hour, she lost it. She didn't have much to lose by that point. "I have to go! No, no, no! _I have to go!"_ He gathered her into his arms as she sunk to her knees, weeping into his shoulder. "I have to go."

"All right. All right, Christine. You can go. You can go wherever you want."

Yet she didn't go. The thought of facing the entire world by herself, of hiding with no job or money or help - it was too much at that moment.

And yet the thought of dealing with the swarm of shadows and voices that accompanied the man with yellow eyes was also far too much. Erik wanted her. And the shadow creature also wanted her; she sensed this, too. There was something so dark around Erik that _it_ pressed against her body and soul, making it impossible to breathe or think. It made her sick, physically and mentally. Something evil accompanied his every step.

There was no solution.

"I kind of want to die," she whispered.

Raoul flinched. "Christine, why would you say something like that? What happened to you?"

"I don't know what else to do. Except disappear somehow."

"Sweetheart, you need to tell me what's wrong. There's nothing too big to fix. Tell me what happened to you."

She shook her head. "I can't. It's too dangerous."

He sighed and rubbed her back. "Then will you at least come with me for a while? You look exhausted."

"I don't think that's safe. And my flight."

"I'll drive you. And if you miss the flight, I'll buy you a new one. I promise. A plane ticket to wherever you want. But let's go think about this a little bit, okay?" She pressed her lips together as it became more and more difficult to say no to him. "I love you, Christine. I just want to make sure you're making the best decision. Is running away from everything really what you want? You want to give up everything?"

"Don't you understand?" she snapped, finally looking up at him. "Of course I don't want that! But there's no choice!"

"There's always a choice. Please. Please talk to me."

He was so warm and reassuring, and she desperately wanted to believe him. Of course there was no choice. But maybe there was somewhere. How much time did she have? Her thoughts raced.

"Christine?"

"You promise you'll get me to the airport on time?"

"I swear to God. Okay? Will you come with me for a little bit?" Her silence was acceptance. Raoul reached down and easily picked up her suitcase, then gently took her arm with his other hand. He kissed the side of her head. "I promise it'll be okay." Dazed and exhausted, she allowed him to lead her to his car. He climbed in on the other side, started the engine, and turned up the heat. Christine continued to shiver, silent as he drove. Every nighttime shadow seemed to reach out toward her. Every sound, from the hum of the car to the whispers of the heater, seemed threatening.

"I shouldn't be here," she whispered as they reached his glowing apartment. "You're going to get hurt."

"I just want you to rest before you leave," he replied, side glancing her. She couldn't read what he was thinking. Still, she allowed him to lead her inside and guide her to his plush leather couch. His apartment smelled of microwave pizza and laundry detergent. A stack of video games and action movies sat on his glass table, and she couldn't help but half smile. The memories of their happy times together seemed so far away now—like a previous life. She felt like a different person, no longer tied to this world.

Raoul ran to the kitchen and got her a glass of ice water. She immediately begin to drink, realizing just how dehydrated she'd become. Her throat nearly burned. Slowly, he took a seat beside her.

"I didn't bring that phone," she stated with a frantic glance at her belongings.

"Did you need it? I can go—"

"No! No, it can't be here."

"Okay. Okay. It's not here, so we're good." He took her free hand.

She finished the water and set the glass on the table. "No, we're not. He probably knows I'm here. But maybe he thinks I'm breaking up with you."

"Who? Who are you talking about?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I shouldn't say anything else. I'm putting you in danger by being here, Raoul. Don't you understand? It's bad for you to be around me. I'm going to get you hurt. Or worse!"

"Christine, you have to calm down. You have to tell me what happened to you. Did someone hurt you? Then we need to get the police, right?"

"No. They can't help. No one can."

"Why? Why can't they help? If someone—"

"Nothing makes sense anymore, Raoul." Her terrified eyes gazed into his. "There are _things _out there, Raoul. There are shadows that are alive. And he's something that's not human. And nothing can be done."

"Who's not human?"

"Erik."

"The homeless musician? He hurt you?"

"He didn't - How do you know his name?" she asked with wide eyes.

"Meg told me," he admitted. "What did he do to you?"

"I shouldn't talk about it anymore. He might hear."

"There's no one here right now but you and me. I promise. You're safe here."

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and listened. Silence. No humming in her mind. Or, wait—no that was a passing car. Yes, they were truly alone. For at least that moment, they were safe.

"Let me help you."

"Oh, I…I don't even know where to start—"

And it all came out in an avalanche of jumbled words. And she couldn't stop it. Someone else had to know because she couldn't handle this all by herself. She told Raoul of their beginnings in the library, of the head chimes and the music lessons. And then, after her recital, of the magical transformation from a sickly elderly man to a powerful specter. And the terrifying afterwards. "...His face was terrible. But the shadows, Raoul. They were everywhere! On the walls and the floors. And the flowers all die when he's around. And the voice in my head gets louder every day. It's a terrible voice. Not Erik's voice. Erik has a wonderful voice. But the head voice is completely evil. And I don't know how to-to escape it or him. Except to keep running. That's why I have to go. Because what else can be done?" Raoul stroked her hair and was silent. "Raoul? Right? Nothing else can be done? So are you going to help me get away?"

"I'm going to help you, Christine," he replied in an exhausted voice. "I swear I'm going to help you."

* * *

><p>Was <em>any<em> of it real?

Had a man named Erik really kidnapped her?

Or was that a part of her hallucination as well? With a sick feeling in his chest as he watched his girlfriend completely deteriorate in front of him, Raoul chose to go along with it for a while. It was possible that some sicko had messed with her and made this worse.

"If someone kidnapped you, we need to get the police. And give them a description of him. Tell them where he lives, okay?" He studied her as she jerked away with wide eyes.

"No! They can't do anything! Didn't you hear me? He's not like anyone else! I have to run!"

_How did he handle this?_ "Listen. If Erik—If he's real—"

"Of course he's real! You believe me, don't you? Please. I know what it sounds like. But you have to believe me!" It looked like she was about to jump up. "If you don't, I have to—"

"I believe you. I believe you." He was going to have to be very careful or she would run away again. "All right. Okay. We have to get the police and have him arrested for this."

"No! I told you they can't do anything! Bullets fall at his feet! Nothing can hurt him! And I don't want him to be hurt! I just have to run away!"

"Okay. I believe you," he lied. "It's going to be okay. We'll figure a way out of this."

"I don't see a way out of this, Raoul. How can anyone fight a living shadow?"

"I…don't know."

If Christine told this story to the cops, they'd think she was crazy.

And Raoul was beginning to think that Erik was also a figment of her imagination. Along with talking shadows and living bed sheets and dying plants. This had happened to her before, hadn't it? Raoul felt sick inside, helpless in the face of her illness. It was heart wrenching to see her like this.

Did he call the hospital? Could they help?

She sniffled. "Will you still drive me to my flight? You have to."

He swallowed. "Sure. But you have some time, right? Why not get some sleep first?"

"How can I sleep?! How can you sleep after what I just told you? How can anyone sleep! There's magic in the world, Raoul. Real dark magic."

"I know. I know, babe, and we'll figure something out. But you look exhausted right now. You rest for a while, and I'll try to come up with something."

She sighed. "I haven't slept well in so long. I don't know if I can."

"Try to get a little rest." He kissed her temple. "Please." After a second, he retrieved a couple of felt blankets and pillows from the linen closet. She thanked him and settled back into the pillows with a disturbed glint in her eyes.

"Can I have more water?" she softly asked.

"Yeah. Definitely." Relieved to be of use in this situation, he got her another cup of water. She sipped it for a moment and then slowly lay down, eyes still wide as she stared to the side. He sat beside her and held her hand. Every so often, her lids would close, and then she would flinch and sit right back up. Finally, her breathing became slow and steady, and her hand went limp. Yet, even in sleep, her face was scrunched up with worry.

Raoul sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

He touched his phone but couldn't bring himself to do it yet. To try and have her committed. Maybe there was a way to talk her through it—to make her see that these thoughts weren't normal. He tried to recall some useful tidbit from freshman year psychology. Then he searched the Internet for "schizophrenia." Hearing voices. Delusions. Paranoia. Agitation. She had all the symptoms. And antipsychotic medication was the main form of treatment.

His heart fell. He knew he should call the police and let them know Christine was alive, but Raoul still didn't feel like dealing with that until morning. He needed help from someone who wouldn't make this situation worse than it already was. Slowly, he dialed Meg. She knew about Christine's past. Maybe she had some miracle solution.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Meg."

"Raoul?" Her voice trembled. "Is everything okay?"

"Not really."

"Is she-?" She couldn't even say it.

"I found her."

A gasp and a sob. "A-alive?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, thank God! How? Where?"

"At her apartment. She was just…there."

"Is she okay?" Meg softly asked.

"No. That's the thing. Something is really, really wrong with her. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do. I'm afraid my parents will freak out. And the police will think she's crazy. I don't know if I should call 911. Or—"

"What's wrong with her?"

"I think her illness came back. The one she had as a kid." Christine's story had been so strange and jumbled that it was difficult to repeat. Still, he tried to include the main details, especially the ones that were clearly part of a very troubled mind. And then he asked, "So what do you think? Is that like what happened to her when she was younger?"

Meg weakly replied, "It sounds worse. A lot worse. Her hallucinations were never that vivid before."

"Do you think any of what she's saying happened? Have you ever seen Erik? Do we have any proof that he exists?"

"She thinks he killed those three people?"

"Yeah. But only because she touched his head and saw magic visions." Raoul cringed as he said it.

Meg sighed. "No. I've only heard about Erik from her. And, now that I think about it, nothing about him sounds real, does it? A magical homeless man who gave her voice lessons? Yeah. I should have realized it wasn't right."

"Where do you think she's been?"

"I don't know. For all we know, she's been wandering the streets."

"She doesn't look like she's been on the streets. That's the thing. She's clean and dressed well." Raoul groaned. "It doesn't even matter where she's been. How do we get her help? Do I call 911? Or should I drive her to some type of facility? How do I know they'll treat her well? Some of those places are creepy. What do I do?"

"I don't know. But we'll figure something out. Give me ten minutes, and I'll be right over."

"Thanks, Meg. I'm so damned lost right now."

"It'll be okay. She got better before. I know she'll get better again. She has both of us on her side."

"Yeah," he softly replied. "See you in a few." He hung up, the phone falling to his side, and went back into the living room. The floor creaked beneath his foot, and Christine sat up straight and stared at him. Her leg extended outward and knocked the glass of ice water onto the carpet and table.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh. I'm sorry. I thought—"

"It's no big deal," he quickly reassured her. "Only water. Don't worry about it. Please. I'm just sorry I woke you."

"That's okay. I was barely asleep." She looked at her hands.

"Hey. Um. Meg is coming over soon, okay?"

"What? Why?" Her eyes widened, and she gripped the blanket. "Then you're both in danger."

"Well, she's going to help me drive you to the airport. Don't you want to say goodbye to her before you go? She's your best friend."

Christine slowly nodded. "Yeah. I guess I should say goodbye. I might never see her again. And then I have to go."

"Yeah," he weakly lied. She looked so small and frail on his sofa that he wanted to cry again. But he held it together for her sake. "Then you can go, babe."


	17. Chapter 17

So the next chapters will take us to a pivotal point. I hope you find them exciting. And perhaps a bit scary ;) Thank you for all your support!

**Read and Review!**

She didn't go back to sleep after Raoul said that Meg was coming over. The ball of terror in her stomach was tightening as the minutes ticked by. Staying here was doing no one any good. She was only delaying the inevitable.

Because his house was so warm and safe.

And the outside was so cold, dark, and insane.

She placed her hands at her sides and prepared to force herself up from the sofa. She would demand an immediate ride to the airport. Yet before Christine could do so, there was a knock at the door. She flinched and curled back up on the couch.

"It's Meg," said Raoul after glancing through the blinds. They fell back against the window glass with a soft _tap, tap, tap._

"Oh," she whispered.

He opened the door and said something to Meg that Christine couldn't hear. Meg walked inside, and Christine stood. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds before Meg raced forward and tightly embraced her. "Oh, Christine!" Meg released a shaky sob. "Don't you ever do that again!"

Christine returned the hug. "I'm sorry. I—" But what else could she say? "I'm sorry."

They both withdrew. Christine looked down and softly laughed. "What are you wearing?"

"My Bugs Bunny pajama pants," Meg replied with a blush as she side-glanced Raoul. "I guess I forgot to get redressed. At least they're warm."

"Oh." It seemed so silly in all this terror that Christine released another strange giggle.

Then the three of them silently stared at each other in the dim room as the gold trimmed clock approached 10 PM.

Meg finally spoke, her voice soft and hesitant. "So. Raoul said you had some pretty crazy things happen to you?"

Christine winced and then cast a slight glare toward her boyfriend. He never should have told Meg any of this. All it did was put another person in harm's way. "It doesn't matter. I just have to leave."

"But why?" Meg asked. "Why won't you let us help you?"

"You can't. No one can. I have to do this by myself. In fact, I should probably go now." She searched for her suitcase. Behind her, she could sense Raoul and Meg exchanging a long glance.

Sleep had brought her slightly more clarity. Now that she thought about it, Raoul had been far too calm when she'd told him the truth. They were both too serene. After all, there was magic in the world. Real dark magic! And neither of them was upset or frantic about this truth? That could only mean—

She sharply turned to face them. "You guys don't believe me, do you? You both think I'm crazy."

"No, we don't," Raoul protested a little too quickly. "We're still confused about what happened."

"I never should have told you. I need to leave."

"Christine-"

"No. It doesn't matter if you don't believe me." Tears formed in her eyes. "It doesn't matter. I still have to go."

"Christine," said Meg. "If someone hurt you, then you should let us help you."

"No one can help."

"But—"

"You can't help!" she nearly shouted as her self-control faltered. "How many times do I have to say that? You can't help me."

"Woah. Woah. Please babe. Please just listen," said Raoul, making a downward motion with his palms. "Listen to what you're saying. A magical man? A man who transforms from old to young. Who has talking and living shadows in his house? Who shows you visions from the past?"

"I thought I was crazy at first. I spent days thinking I was completely insane. But I'm not! I know he's real. The visions and the shadows and all of that—I don't know how to explain it. But I know Erik is real. And he's going to come after me."

"But why not get the police?" asked Meg. "If he really kidnapped you-"

"They can't help! He can't be hurt!"

"Then you are saying he's magic," Meg replied with a glance at the floor.

"Yes!" With a sigh of frustration, Christine walked to the side of the living room and grabbed her suitcase. "Where's your phone?" she asked Raoul. He only stared at her. She turned to Meg. "Meg, let me borrow your phone. I need to call a cab." Meg looked like she was about to reach into her coat pocket. Then her hand dropped back to her side, and she shifted. "Fine," Christine muttered. "I'll find a payphone or something."

Despite her anger, she could feel her sanity faltering again. This was becoming far too much. Running from Erik. Dealing with their disbelief. She had no one on her side.

Was she going to lose everything in a single evening?

"Christine." Raoul spoke as she dragged her suitcase toward the door. She sharply glanced up. "Please listen to us."

"Why? You won't listen to me. And it doesn't matter now."

"Christine—" But she ignored them both, biting her lip to keep from bawling. As she put her hand on the cold doorknob, Raoul played his final card. He walked up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Christine—"

"No," she snapped. "Just let me go."

"If you go, I'll call the police," said Raoul with a tremble in his voice.

"_What?"_

"I'll tell them everything you just told me. I'll tell them…that you're not well." He gave her a pained look. "Because it's the truth, sweetheart. You're not."

"They can't stop me from leaving!" she shot back as her heart skipped a beat of fear.

"You said you wanted to die," he murmured, glancing at the floor.

"What? I didn't mean—"

"I could say that I think you're a threat to yourself."

"You're going to use that against me?" she rasped in disbelief. "You—"

"I don't want to use anything against you! I just don't want you to go out there on your own with these crazy thoughts in your head! You're not well, Christine! Listen to yourself! You're not well!" His eyes filled with tears. He let out a grunt of grief and turned away from her. "I don't know what else to do."

"I'll tell them everything you say is a lie."

"You could," he softly agreed. "But that doesn't mean I won't at least try to get you some help."

Her mouth hung open. If Raoul called the cops, it would hopelessly stall her. And yet nothing she could say would make him believe her.

"What do I have to do for you to let me go?" she whispered.

Raoul didn't answer her. Meg finally replied, "Maybe you should just talk to someone first."

"Like a shrink?" asked Christine. "Yeah, that's going to go well. I'm sure they'll believe everything I say." She groaned and turned back to her boyfriend. "Oh my God. I never should have told you, Raoul! I wish you still thought I was dead! It would have made this so much easier!" She dropped her suitcase with a loud thud. Clutching the sides of her head, she ran through the living room and kitchen and into his nearest bathroom. She slammed the door behind her, leaned over the marble sink, and began to sob into her hands.

Of course Raoul thought she was insane. If the situation were reversed, she'd think the same thing. She'd do the same thing he was doing—try to get him professional help.

And the worst part of all was that Christine was again questioning her own sanity. A tiny part of her brain wondered- _What if a dose of antipsychotics made all of this disappear?_

She stared at herself in the mirror, her tangled hair that had become far too long and her bloodshot eyes.

_No wonder they think I'm nuts._

Several minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. Christine twitched but said nothing, continuing to stare at her reflection.

"Christine?" It was Meg. "It's just me. Are you okay?"

"Fantastic," she muttered.

"Can I come in?"

She hesitated. "I guess."

Meg entered and softly closed the door. She put a hand on Christine's back and came up beside her. They stared at each other in the mirror. Even in her lumpy attire, Meg looked well put together with her dark hair in a tight pony tail and her unblemished pale skin. "Please let us help you. It'll be okay. I know it will."

"Did Raoul call the men in white coats?"

"No. He hasn't. He's really worried about you. And probably a little hurt."

"Hurt?" Christine asked with a swallow.

"Well, you keep saying you're leaving him forever," said Meg with a shrug. "He's confused."

"Oh." She'd barely thought about that. Saving his life had seemed to be a higher priority than sparing his feelings. But Raoul probably didn't see it that way.

"But don't worry about that right now," said Meg. "He just wants you to get better."

"It's not about getting better. I need to leave!"

"We need to figure this out first. It's just…this is so much like what happened to you when you were younger, right?"

"It's not, Meg. This is real."

"Voices and shadows?"

"But Erik. Erik is real." She turned to face her best friend. "He's as real as you or me. Other people can see him."

"But you say nothing can hurt him. If he's like you and me, he can't be invincible, right?"

"I don't know," Christine admitted. "I don't know what he is."

"We don't want to see you run off like this. All alone with these strange thoughts."

"I'm terrified, Meg. I don't know what to do. I don't want to run away and be all alone. But I can't stay here. Or—"

"Or what?"

Or what? It was actually a good and terrifying question. Or Erik would keep her, and she would be trapped with the evil Shadow? Or the Shadow would steal her away and there would be nothing left? Or were Erik and the Shadow the same? Pondering this, she didn't answer her friend.

Meg continued, "What if you stayed another week or so? Just until—"

"No. I can't do that. There's not time."

"All right." Meg paused. "Raoul wants to call an ambulance. But I know you don't want that either."

"No. He needs to let me go." Christine grabbed a tissue, ran it under cold water, and began to rub her eyes. "But you could tell the police I'm not crazy. That everything he's saying isn't true." Meg stared at the midnight blue bathroom rug. "Couldn't you, Meg?"

She crossed her arms and shifted. "But Christine. I'm not sure you're really well either. And I don't want you to be hurt out there by yourself. I wish you'd talk to somewhat who could help."

She sighed and desperately tried to think of a way out of this. Meg thought of it for her.

"So will you let us take you somewhere? On your terms? To talk to someone? Or maybe…maybe if you go somewhere else, you'll just get better? Like when you and your father moved away? Will you let us help?"

She was about to say "no" but then hesitated. At least they would be on the move and not stuck here like trapped rats in a cage.

Maybe she could run at the first opportunity, the first time Raoul stopped for gas or to go to the bathroom. It'd be harder for the authorities to track her. Or did she give therapy and medication a try?

She stared at her face in the mirror and felt like she was looking at a stranger. If that whole week with Erik hadn't been real, what the hell had she been doing that entire time? Pushing around a shopping cart with three wheels while she talked to herself in an alleyway?

_You know it was all real._

"Christine? Will you let us help you?"

She couldn't stay here. And she didn't want to be strapped down to a bed and subdued in a mental ward.

So she bought time. "Yes. I'll let you," she murmured.

Meg smiled widely and embraced her. "Oh, Christine! I know you'll be okay! Just like last time! You'll be okay!"

She shook her head. "You must think I'm the most messed up person in the world."

"God, no," said Meg, still gripping her shoulders as she drew back. "Remember when I was a mess in New York about how badly my nonexistent dance career was going?"

"Yeah."

"I was so depressed and half-starved. Popping diet pills like they were candy. And then you came up there to see me. And you hugged me and told me that it would be okay? Well, it'll be the same for you. We're going to get through this!" She clasped her hand. "Right?" Christine weakly nodded. They soon walked out of the bathroom together. Raoul was hunched over on the couch and staring at the floor. He glanced up when they entered, and Christine could see the pain in his eyes. "She says that she'll go with us to get help," said Meg. "Okay?"

Raoul hesitated. "Okay. Great. That's…great. Where do we go?"

"Christine, where do _you _want to go?" asked Meg with forced optimism.

"Out of state?" They stared at her. "Oh, I don't know. How about Ohio?"

Raoul blinked. "All right. Is there a specific…err…facility there?"

She was too tired to continue the game for long. "I don't know."

"Well, I'm sure that's easy to find!" chirped Meg as though they were looking for the best pizza restaurant in town. "Let's see." She jumped onto Raoul's open laptop and began to type. "Look! There's the Ohio Hospital for Psychiatry. And lots of state hospitals. And Cambridge. And yeah. Lots of places."

"Great," said Christine. "That's great." She paused. "And after I do what you want me to do…talk to someone or whatever…you'll let me go?"

"Yeah," said Meg with a touch of sadness. "We won't keep you here forever. Right, Raoul?"

"Right," he murmured, his eyes back on the floor. "We'll head over there in the morning, if that's okay?"

Christine nodded and numbly sat on the couch. Her sleeves hung loosely over her arms and nearly covered her palms, reminding her of a straightjacket. The fear of being locked up or restrained in a hospital became more palpable. She curled up beneath the blanket and closed her eyes, drifting in and out. At one point, she heard Raoul and Meg whispering to each other.

"I think she needs serious help," said Raoul. "Are you sure we shouldn't call 9-11? What if she tries to run?"

"I don't want to freak her out even more," said Meg. "She doesn't have any close family. All she has is us. I want her to trust us. She must be so scared."

"Do you think she'll let us help?"

"I hope so. Just be patient with her."

"I'm trying to be. I love her. I just…I can't believe this. I can't believe how sick she is. It's devastating!"

As she drifted to sleep, Christine felt a dangerous passiveness come over her.

Erik had stolen most of her control.

Raoul and Meg took the rest of it. Nobody trusted her or believed her. No one listened or cared what she wanted. So why even bother?

Raoul shook her shoulder and woke her hours later. "Are you ready to go, sweetheart? It's sunrise. Did you get enough sleep?" His shadowy eyes told that he'd gotten practically no sleep.

"Yeah," she softly replied.

He put his arm around her as she stood, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. "It's going to be okay, Christine. I'll be at your side every step of the way. You're going to get better."

Meg must have run back home because she was now dressed in jeans and a grey college sweatshirt. She smiled reassuringly and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

Christine allowed them to lead her to the dark backseat of Raoul's car. Daytime was approaching, but the sky was cloudy. The occasional flurry was visible in the streetlights. Raoul opened a backdoor, and Christine climbed inside the interior. Meg scooted in beside her and grabbed her cold hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Raoul got into the driver's seat and started the engine. He turned down the heat until the car warmed up.

"You okay back there?" he asked. "Need another blanket?"

"I'm fine," Christine softly replied. As he drove, she stared outside at the passing familiar buildings of the university, remembering a more normal life that now seemed so far away. Lights flashed on in homes as their occupants prepared for work. She glanced at the gas gauge and saw that Raoul had about a third of a tank left. Would he run out and have to stop? Would that be her chance to get away?

Or would she ever run?

When she was fourteen, she'd also been convinced that those shadows and voices were real. And then they'd disappeared just as quickly as they'd arrived. What if that happened again? What if all of her horrors were nothing but delusions?

She placed her face in the soft felt blanket.

"Are you okay?" asked Meg.

"I just want to be better," she whispered.

"You will be," said Meg. "I promise."

Raoul turned onto an exit, and then they were flying down the highway, passing trucks and slow drivers. The brown fields whipped by, and the snowflakes came down harder. And then there were more trees, all bare in winter except for the snow-dusted conifers. She was briefly reminded that it was almost Christmastime.

"Any idea how bad the weather is supposed to get?" asked Meg.

"Light snow," Raoul replied. "Should be okay."

Their soft voices were calming, and the backseat warmed up into a protective cocoon. There were no shadows or voices. Meg shared her bottle of water, and Christine took a drink. She felt simultaneously safer and pathetic. Like a small child with her best friend and boyfriend taking on the roles of her mother and father.

"My insurance isn't all that good," she murmured. That was a sane and adult thought, wasn't it?

"Don't worry about that for a second," said Raoul. And she knew he meant it. He'd take care of everything.

"Some of the medication has side effects," she then stated. That was true, too.

"We'll find the best one for you," said Meg. "Whatever happens, it has to be better than…."

She didn't finish her sentence, but Christine understood. Than being crazy.

She rested her head against Meg's shoulder and closed her eyes, praying this would all go away. The bumps and movement of the car began to make her drowsy again. She heard Raoul and Meg discuss the location. About a hundred and fifty more miles. Should be there by nine or so.

She didn't think they were going to Ohio, but Christine said nothing. Maybe it didn't matter now. She drifted off as they drove forward. About twenty minutes passed.

_Hum. Hum. Hum._

She thought it was the engine at first.

_Hum. Hum. Hum._

Her head shot up. "What's wrong with the car?" Christine asked.

"Nothing," replied Raoul. "Why?"

"That noise," she whispered.

"What noise?" asked Meg.

_Hum. Hum. Hum._

It wasn't the car. It was in her head.

"What the hell?" Raoul muttered.

Meg asked, "What's wrong?"

"Steering is being weird. Can't keep the car straight. And it's not windy. Wow. Maybe Christine did hear something mechanical."

Christine felt the vehicle jerk to the side. Raoul cursed and forced it back onto the highway.

_Hum. Hum. Hum._

"No, no, no," Christine muttered. She glanced backward and saw something dark approaching behind them. Like a car—except that it nearly seemed to float over the road. "Oh, God. Raoul! Raoul, pull over!"

"I will over at the exit. It's not safe here with the visibility. Someone might hit us."

"But he's coming!" she shouted.

_Hum. Hum. Hum…._

"Who?!" Raoul asked as he frantically tried to keep the car on the road.

"Erik!"

"Baby, Erik doesn't exist. Dammit!" He pulled the wheel back into place. "I need to figure out what's going on!"

"Let me out so I can go! Let him have me! Let me out!"

"Christine, stop it!"

"Everyone quit shouting. Calm down," said Meg. "Please calm down! We need to get off the—"

She screamed. Everyone screamed as the car passed beneath a bridge and then headed straight toward an enormous bare tree with a thick grey trunk. Raoul frantically spun the wheel, but it was too late.

The humming in her head became a roar as she braced herself for unspeakable agony and likely death. Christine heard a metallic crash and felt herself being thrown forward.

And then there was blackness. Yet there was no discomfort in it. A quilt of shadows fell over her, wrapping around her arms, legs, and torso as though to hold her in place. Humming surrounded her on all sides. She could not move or see or speak. It was like sleep paralysis. She was conscious and yet—not. Her heart thudded in her ears. Terror made it difficult to breathe.

Helpless, she waited.

And, then, she heard the Shadow speak. Its voice was cold, soft, and calm. "_No, Erik. It is the other that I can use. Take the other. And then I will ensure that the golden-haired child desires only you. Trust me, my friend. I will never lead you astray. Trust me...Only me..."_

After that, Christine completely blacked out and heard nothing.

She felt softness beneath her cheek as she slowly came to consciousness. Christine opened her eyes. She was still in the car, leaning against the soft backseat. And they were still in front of the tree, covered in its twisted shadow. Christine blinked and softly gasped. She looked down at herself. Outside of the discomfort from the seatbelt twisted at an awkward angle around her waist, there were no injuries. Just silence. Until—

A groan up front. Raoul! He was slouched over the steering wheel and a deflated airbag. With a shaking hand, she leaned forward and jiggled his shoulder. He muttered something and then raised his head. There was a faint bruise on his temple. But no blood. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

He jumped and looked around. "Christine? Oh my God. Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He glanced up at the tree. "Jeez. I can't believe we're even alive! And the car's still in one piece. At the speeds we were going at? We must have decelerated before we hit the tree. I must have hit the brake in time. Yeah. Yeah, that's it." He took several deep breaths. She didn't reply. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm fine." She was staring at the empty spot beside her. "But-but where's Meg?"

"What? Meg?" He glanced back. "Hey. Yeah. Where the heck is she?"

After frantically unbuckling her seatbelt, Christine opened her door and stepped into a patch of brown grass. "Meg!" she called as a cold wind hit her face.

Raoul jumped out as well and began to look around. "Meg!" He ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe she thought we were both hurt and went to get help." He took out his cell phone and glanced at the clock. "It's been less than five minutes since the crash. She can't be far." He quickly dialed.

Christine glanced in the backseat as an upbeat ringtone that sounded like falling raindrops began to play. Meg's cell phone. "Oh, God."

"Shit," Raoul muttered as he also heard the sound. He hung up, his hand dropping to his side. "Why wouldn't she take her phone?"

"Why wouldn't she use her phone to call for help?" asked Christine as a chill traveled over her. She remembered the humming. "Oh, God." Her fingers curled at her neckline. "What if-?"

"What?" Raoul sighed and closed his eyes. "Okay. We'll find her. Um. We've been in an accident. Let's just call the police. Get some help out here."

As Raoul dialed again, Christine frantically ran forward into the wooded area. "Meg! Meg! Meg!" And then—"Erik! Give her back! It's me you want! Take me! Give her back! Meg! Give her back!" Over and over, she screamed her friend's name as she ran through the trees.

A shiny black crow flew overhead, cawing shrilly as it finally landed on a high branch. Otherwise, there was silence. "Meg!" She grabbed onto a rough tree trunk, the jagged bark digging into her palms. "Meg!" Out of breath, she leaned over. "Give her back. Please, please."

Someone touched her shoulder from behind, and she whirled around to face Raoul. "We'll find her," he said. "I promise we will. She can't be far. She-"

"Now do you believe me? Or does someone else have to disappear or die?"

"Christine—"

"Do you still think I'm crazy?!" she sobbed.

Police sirens and flashing red and blue lights interrupted them before he could reply.

Still, during the ride back to the city, Raoul never told the authorities she was insane. He was quiet, his mouth fixed in a grim line.

"You sure you kids aren't playing some kind of game?" a police officer questioned. Raoul had just explained that, while Christine had been successfully found, he now had to report another possible missing person.

"It's not a game," Raoul insisted. "Megan Giry was with us. She disappeared after the accident. Can you explain that?"

Christine weakly murmured, "It's _his_ game now."

But no one heard her.


	18. Chapter 18

**A bit of delay between chapters these days, I know. Call it summer sluggishness or too much distraction. Haha. Thank you for your continuous support. I hope you're still enjoying the story.**

**Read and Review!**

They had interrogated Christine about her own disappearance for fifteen minutes. Raoul had been taken to another office, probably so the authorities could make sure there were no domestic 'issues' occurring. She made up a lame story about going on a long road trip with a friend, who was traveling in Europe right now and therefore couldn't be called in for questioning.

"And you didn't notify your friend or boyfriend that you were going on a road trip?"

One of the officers was female. Christine looked knowingly at her and said, "I _did_ tell him, but I guess he didn't hear me. Haha. You know how guys can be. He was probably playing a video game or something. And I thought Meg was going away for the holidays and wouldn't care. I am so, so sorry that I caused everyone so much trouble. Next time I'll be more careful and remember to charge my phone." _Blink, blink._ _Smile._

Despite all the trauma, she was able to robotically get through the ordeal. Meg soon became more important than two dumb college kids who had relationship communication issues. Christine remained fairly quiet as Raoul spoke with the authorities, describing Meg's disappearance at least three times. His voice was becoming more frustrated as he dealt with their disbelief. It wasn't until someone came back from an office and said, "I called her family and apartment. Checked with a neighbor. No one's seen her or heard from her. Told them to call immediately if they did. Parents are on their way up here."

"Where were you kids heading?" asked a cop with red hair and faded freckles. He was younger and thin, more like a kid playing pretend-policeman. _Or maybe I'm just getting old._

"Holiday shopping," Raoul smoothly lied. "The girls wanted to go to the outlet mall sales."

"Ah. Yeah." He chuckled. "My wife headed there last weekend. Don't want to see the credit card bills."

"Heh," Raoul dully agreed.

"So you think that Megan may have thought you were injured and went to search for help?"

"It's the only explanation that makes any sense," Raoul replied.

"Anyone she might have gone to for help?"

"No. I mean I don't know."

"All right. Well, we're going to check around the area. Make sure no one picked her up on the way. Was she trusting?"

"Um—"

"Yes," said Christine. They both looked at her. She kept her eyes on the wooden desk, following the black grooves. "Meg is trusting. She's the sweetest person you'll ever meet."

Raoul continued to stare at her as the policeman jotted down some notes. "So you think she might have accepted a ride from someone she didn't know?"

"No." _Only I accept offers from strange men. _"She wouldn't do that."

"All right, then." He scratched his head. "We'll keep looking. Maybe she got lost out there. It's cold but not enough to cause immediate problems. There're gas stations around that area. A McDonald's about three miles away. I'm sure she'll turn up."

They would never find her. The knowledge sat with Christine as she and Raoul were inspected for minor injuries. Raoul was given some ice for his bruise. There was insurance paperwork to fill out, and an officer was kind enough to give them a ride to a car rental agency. Raoul's vehicle wasn't totaled, but it needed major repairs. "And I should really look into suing the manufacturer or something," he complained. "The steering was completely messed up. We could have been killed!"

She knew that no one would find anything wrong. The accident would be blamed on a distracted driver or a hidden patch of ice.

Christine slid into the passenger seat of a pine green rental car that faintly smelled of baby wipes and cigarettes. Raoul continued to speak as he drove, hands gripping the leather wheel a little too tightly. He was fighting to hold onto his view of the world—where girls didn't mysteriously disappear and cars didn't develop minds of their own. She could hear it in his voice.

"I just don't get why she didn't bring her phone. The battery was charged. Even if she couldn't get service right away, she'd at least carry it with her. But maybe she was too freaked out…."

She didn't protest or try to explain. She was numb and exhausted. And the reality of what had to happen next was becoming clearer and clearer.

"How are you feeling?" he asked when he noticed the one-sided conversation.

How did one answer that? With truth or lies or sarcasm or silence? She went with a bit of all four. "I don't know, Raoul. I don't know how I'm feeling."

"I know this is weird," he said. "First, you disappear. And then you're not, you know, well. And then that accident. And Meg. It doesn't make sense. It's like the worst luck in the world."

"It all makes sense if you believe me."

"But—"

"No," she stated. "I'm done convincing you that I'm not crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy." She gave him a look. "Okay. All right. Let's says I believe you. Why would he…why would Erik take Meg?"

She hesitated. "Because he thought I was leaving him. To keep me here."

"Why not take you?"

She nibbled on her lip and admitted, "I don't know." Raoul was right. It didn't make sense. Did Erik just do it to make her suffer? Why did he kill three people? Because he enjoyed it? Was he really that sadistic? _God help them all._ Her nails dug into her palm. "Did they ask why you didn't report me found?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah. I just said I was so excited to see you. Too much going on."

"Why didn't you tell them I was nuts? It was the perfect opportunity."

He shrugged and glanced at her with a pained expression. "Because that would have been too damned much. With Meg missing?" A pause. "And Meg was right. _Is_ right. I don't want you committed against your will. I want you to want help."

"Raoul—"

"Don't you know how hard it was seeing you like that? You think I'm being a jerk. I'm afraid you're going to hurt yourself. You wanted to disappear off the face of this earth. You thought I was just going to stand by and let that happen? Oh, okay, Christine. Have fun in Hawaii or wherever the hell you're going. Don't forget to send a postcard." He pounded a fist against the wheel. "Where the heck is she? _Where were you?_ This is all too much. It is way too damn much." He took a shaky breath and quieted.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently massaged his upper back with her thumb. It was cowardly to make him be the strong one when she was the one with the knowledge. "Let's find Meg," she murmured. "And if she's okay, if she's wandering around the woods or eating fries right now, I'll get help. With no resistance. I'll talk to someone. Okay?"

He glanced at her and then quickly back at the road. "Really?"

"I promise." She only promised because she knew that Meg was not befriending deer or munching on salty potato sticks. Raoul took her hand and squeezed it. Christine's thoughts turned back to the approaching reality.

Meg might already be doomed. Christine forced herself not to consider this because she'd collapse into tears. She hoped she could still protect Raoul.

Either way, there was only once choice now. She would return to Erik. There was no escaping him or whatever hovered around him like a dark sheet. If she completely lost her mind in the process, well…at least no one would die because of her poor decisions. There had never been an escape. There had never been a choice.

"I love you," Raoul told her. "We're going to get through this mess.

"I love you, too," she replied. And she meant it. She just knew it wouldn't save them.

Meg's mother called her late that afternoon and tearfully demanded to know all the details. The police were still searching the general area of the accident. Mrs. Giry was at the station, and they were questioning her as to whether Meg might go to a family friend or relative. The story felt flimsy to everyone but Christine. People didn't just walk away from car accidents and disappear into the woods. Hearing Meg's crying mother was the last straw. And if this wasn't resolved soon, Christine and Raoul were both going to start looking like suspects.

She climbed into bed with Raoul that evening and cuddled with him for a bit. He didn't initiate anything more and fell asleep quickly, exhausted from more than one sleepless night. She didn't sleep; she wasn't even tired. Around midnight, Christine gently pulled away from his one-armed embrace and crawled out of bed. The rug was cold on her feet. With a swallow, she wrapped one of his white bathrobes around her long, thin t-shirt and headed for the front door. The sky was clear, and the wind was cold. A half-moon lit her way. She walked down the sidewalk, shivering. She stared out into the night.

"Erik!" she called into the breeze. She coughed back the hoarseness in her voice and continued her plea. "Erik! I'm here waiting for you. Where are you? I'm right here! Take me back."

There was nothing. No head tingles. No eerie sensations or misplaced shadows.

"Erik! Erik!" She spread out her arms as though waiting for a hug. "Erik! What do you want? I'll give it to you. Just give Meg back. Please don't hurt her. She hasn't done anything. I'm guilty. I lied. Take me."

A car passed, and headlights washed over her. She blinked, but the driver was a middle-aged man who squinted as though she were nuts. He shook his head. _Welcome to the Christine Must Be Crazy Club._

"Erik!" she cried when the car passed. "Erik, I won't run away again."

Eventually, she gave up and went back inside, both relieved and terrified. Did she try going back to Erik's apartment? She doubted that he would be there. The game and rules had changed when she'd lied to him.

"What are you doing out here?" Raoul asked. She'd sat down at his kitchen table without bothering to turn on a light, her chin cupped in one hand.

"Just thinking about things," she murmured. "I'm so worried about her."

"We'll find her." He looked toward the window and grimaced, probably thinking of her alone out there. "Maybe I should go back where we crashed. Go into the woods even further than the police did."

"It won't help," she softly replied. If she'd thought Meg was out there, Christine would be walking through the trees with a flashlight and a dog—just like in the movies.

He looked like he was about to give her a retort, but Raoul only shrugged. He finally sat next to her at the kitchen table. "Want anything to drink?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

The waiting was terrible. It was like sitting beside her father's bedside as he was dying, not knowing whether the waiting or the final event would be more horrible. And—

Her head snapped up. "Raoul, can we go back to my apartment?"

"Why? It's past midnight. How about first thing tomorrow?"

She rapidly shook her head. "When you came over, I was reading something. I was so upset that I forgot. But I need to finish it."

"What were you reading?"

"A letter from my father. He was going to tell me something. And I think it was important. Please. If you don't want to go, I'll drive myself."

"No. I'll take you," he said with a soft sigh. "Let me get dressed."

"Thank you."

When they reached her apartment twenty minutes later, both sloppily donned in jeans and oversized sweatshirts, Christine practically raced to the front door. A part of her was afraid that the piece of paper had disappeared, another one of Erik's magic tricks. But the note was undisturbed exactly where she'd dropped it. Christine eagerly picked it up and sat on the carpet. Raoul took a seat in front of her.

_My beautiful daughter,_

_This is incredibly hard for me._

_I meant to tell you this long ago. But, when you became ill, I didn't want to frighten you even more. Then I meant to tell you before I died, but I still couldn't. Your father, who loves you more than anything in this world, is also a giant coward._

_You always believed that your mother left because she was unhappy or malcontent. Or because I was a hopeless musician going nowhere in life. Maybe I was, but that's not why she left. Jocelyn loved you more than anything. If I would have allowed it, she would have taken you with her._

_I already told you the story of how we met at one of my park concerts. You know that I loved her little quirks. I was also an oddball in my youth. The 1960's were far over, but we were like a couple of hippies. I played my music at various venues, barely making enough to eat, and she traveled around the country with me, sometimes dancing on the stage. She seemed so bright-eyed and optimistic. Most women gave up on me after a couple months but not your mother. Jocelyn had faith in me, and that made her so beautiful._

_Here's what you don't know. There were early signs that something wasn't quite right. She would panic about things that didn't make any sense, if some stranger got too close on the bus. Her grip would tighten on my arm, and she would whisper in my ear, "Charley, let's get out of here. I don't like him. Let's get away from him." I always wondered if she'd suffered a childhood trauma but was too afraid to ask. Like I said, I'm a coward._

_Then came 1991. My band finally decided to break up after years of abject failure. Jocelyn got pregnant two months later. We had a shotgun wedding and then settled down in a one bedroom apartment to start a family. I learned some welding and electrician skills at a trade school and found work here and there. She got a clerical job at an elementary school and seemed happy. The day you were born was absolutely amazing. When I held you for the first time, standing beside your mother in the hospital, I thought everything was going to be okay. Even if I wasn't a famous rock star—hell! I had the most beautiful family in the world._

_But over the next year, her anxiety became worse. I'd come into the living room at 1 AM and find her rocking you. You were fast asleep, and I would ask her why she hadn't come to bed. She would shake her head and say she couldn't sleep, couldn't relax. Finally, she admitted to me that she heard things in her head. Especially when we were in public, she heard voices and sounds that no one else could hear. And they terrified her._

Christine looked up from the letter. Her hands were shaking, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Are you okay?" asked Raoul. "What does it say?"

She took a shuddery breath as a chill traveled over her. "Let me finish it," she whispered, turning it over to the other side.

_I thought we could get through it together. While frightening, schizophrenia isn't unheard of. But no amount of medication and therapy seemed to help her! The sad thing is that your mother seemed fine ninety-nine percent of the time. But when she wasn't fine, it was a nightmare! She would run off and disappear for an entire day. She would yell at strangers for no reason. The final straw came while we were visiting Chicago one summer, standing in a crowd of people and waiting to cross a busy intersection. You were in a stroller. In the time it took me to glance across the street, she grabbed you and disappeared into the crowds. Twenty-two hours later, they found her wandering around the worst parts of the city with you in her arms. Jocelyn was convinced that there had been demons at the intersection._

_I knew then that she'd become a threat to you. Furious, I told her she had to get help or leave. I regret some of the things I said to her that night, telling her I wish I'd never met her. She said to me, with all the blue-eyed earnestness in the world, "But if you hadn't met me, you never would have had Christine." I could never argue with that._

_She was willingly inpatient for two months. Still, nothing they did could convince her that the voices weren't real. Eventually, she ran away and went missing for nearly six months. I was devastated—and terrified that she might come after you! Finally, on a sunny afternoon, she appeared at the front door and promised that she only wanted to visit. I watched her like a hawk as you both played in the autumn leaves together. And then I broke down and cried with her and held her and asked if she wanted to come back. But she was so far gone, Christine. She'd completely lost hold of reality._

_She said she couldn't come back. She had this bizarre story about hearing creatures from the beyond. She'd apparently been involved in deep meditation, new age kind of stuff where she channeled her 'inner goodness and peace.' Utter insanity._

_I tried to get her more help, but she disappeared again long before anyone took it seriously. For months, I heard nothing. And then someone from Florida contacted me. Jocelyn had attempted to break into someone's home down there! She'd been harassing this rich couple, making strange accusations toward the wife. They didn't press charges, only demanded that the nuisance end. I told the police all I could about your mother, and she was finally committed._

_The first time I visited her, she begged me to get her released. She gave me some insane story about needing to go to the Middle East to make a 'real difference.' I told her I couldn't—that I thought she was a danger to herself and others. I also decided to take you and move to another apartment, just in case she ever got out. The next time I visited the hospital, Jocelyn refused to look at me or speak to me. She withdrew, and there was little anyone could do for her. I always told you she'd left, wanting to spare you the details until you were older. Then I got word that she passed away. Unknown cause. More or less lost the will to live, I guess. She'd stopped speaking to anyone, stopped getting out of bed and eating._

_Through some hellish coincidence, you became ill the day after I received notification of her death. As you woke up screaming in terror those nights, I couldn't tell you the truth. I was petrified that your life would be the same! I didn't want you to believe that you were doomed._

_And then you got better. For how long, I don't know. I have lived over forty years, and I know nothing as I lie here on my deathbed. I wish I could have saved her. I wish I were a better man._

_I am so sorry that I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I'm sorry that I can't tell you what your future holds. I'm so sorry for everything._

_I only know that you're strong. Whatever you face, fight back. Don't give up. There's always a light at the end of the tunnel. You were the light at the end of mine._

_I love you always, Christine._

_Dad_

Tears dripped from her eyes as she handed the letter to Raoul without a word. She was tired of secrets.

He quickly read it and then let it flutter to the ground. "I'm so sorry," he said, coming closer on his knees to hug her. "But maybe-maybe now that you know…."

"Know my craziness is inherited?" she hoarsely asked. "Know nothing can be done about it?"

He gave her a pained look as he clasped her shoulders. "You can be one step ahead of it, Christine. You can fight it, just like your dad said."

Exhaling, she grabbed the letter and quickly reread it. Although the information had at first made her feel like giving up altogether, there was also something about it that felt like another puzzle piece. It was as though she could subconsciously sense what her mother had been searching for. "Maybe I am doomed to be a mess," she finally said. "Meg is gone, though. No matter how crazy I am, she's gone, and we don't know why."

"Yeah," Raoul agreed. "She is."

"This letter won't change our agreement, right? I'll get help after we find her." He was silent. "Raoul?"

"Right," he replied. His brow was wrinkled. She stood. "Where are you going?"

She walked to her coffee table and grabbed the phone Erik had given her. She flipped through the contacts and immediately knew he was "E." Swallowing her terror, Christine dialed and waited as it rang twice. Raoul stood beside her.

Three tones. An automated woman's voice said, "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try again. Thank you." She did try again and got the same message.

She had been right; the rules had changed. Erik had cut her off. He was punishing her. With a grunt of frustration, Christine threw the phone on the carpet where it bounced twice. Again, she wondered if she should take a cab to Erik's apartment. Raoul would insist on following, though. And there had to be a way to fix this without blindly walking into danger. She paced. Again, she grabbed the note and read through it, desperately searching for something that could save them all.

_Through some hellish coincidence, you became ill the day after I received notification of her death._

"What if it wasn't a coincidence?" she whispered.

"What?"

"What if me hearing voices right after she died wasn't a coincidence?"

"Christine—"

"I want to go back to the place I lived as a kid. Where the voices started."

"Why?"

"To see…to see if I…." She shook her head. "I can't explain it. I'm just trying to figure out my life, Raoul. I have this feeling that it might help me figure out what's happening to all of us."

He was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Her father's letter had done nothing to help her case. "Will you let me go with you?" he finally asked.

"Can I trust you?" She shook her head when he didn't answer. "I know you're wondering right now if you're going to have to do the same thing that my father did to my mother. But we're not married. You don't have any responsibility for—"

"But I still care about you. Yes, you can trust me. Let's find Meg, and then we'll figure out the rest. I still say I should go back to where we lost her."

"She's not going to be there. I want to go back to where my father and I lived."

He walked to the couch and sat in front of her laptop. "Where was the complex called? Or the street it was on?"

"Hidden Glen Apartments. Off Pine Street. Past this lake that was actually a drainage…thing. But it still had ducks." She gave him the general area, and he began to type in the information. Her body tensed with anticipation.

"When'd you live there?" His tone was strange.

"About ten years ago."

"And you never heard anything weird afterwards?"

"No. What do you mean by weird? I tried to forget that whole experience. I was able to until now."

"That makes sense," he murmured, distracted. She looked over his shoulder; Raoul was reading a news story.

"What are you doing?" she asked with a touch of frustration. "If you can't find them, I should be able to remember where they are."

"That won't matter."

"Why?"

He finally looked at her. "They've been demolished, and there's a shopping center there now."

Her heart fell. Another clue destroyed. Another dead end, and she had so very little to grasp onto.

Until Raoul hesitantly asked—

"Did you know that your landlord was a psychopath?"

* * *

><p><em>It<em> had promised that part of him would remain this time around.

"_I will let you keep your mind, Erik. If you wish to remain on this hellish planet, I won't deny you that."_

Yet he could already sense a certain evaporation of his self with every step forward. His thoughts became less his own.

He stood in front of a black stove that had likely been assembled in the 1930's. The wind howled outside and shook the windows of the small, dim cabin. It suited him more than the previous residence. As though obtaining that pathetic apartment would have made him more palatable to _her._

"_I tried to warn you, Erik. She despises you. You are nothing but a hideous monster to her. And you will remain that way until you fulfill my wishes."_

Indeed, Christine had attempted to escape at the first opportunity. He detected the flight ticket the second it hit her bank account. And then she had run to that idiot boy and likely told him all about the hideous monster. He should have thought ahead to bug Chagny's apartment. But it didn't matter what she'd said to the little moron. All of her words to poor Erik had been pretty lies; she never planned to return. Yet when he had carefully followed Chagny's car and gone to retrieve her, the thing had stopped him.

"_No, Erik. It is the other that I can use. Take the other."_

So he had.

The dark-haired girl was asleep in a dusty crimson armchair, her head against her shoulder. He had used a mild sedative to keep her calm and quiet.

"What if she's not right for this?" he asked _it_, his fingers curling. "She will keep Christine near. She is of use for that reason. But perhaps I should choose another female for the final act." Some part of his sliver-sized conscience told him that Christine would be unhappy with the upcoming changes to her best friend.

But the thing protested_—"She is perfect. I have sensed Megan in my vicinity for weeks. The women we both require are wrapped in their own little bond. It is destiny! Megan is vulnerable. Megan has desires. And she will believe. And once you give her to me, you will have what you want, my heartsick friend."_

"I want Christine to love me," he murmured. "I want her to marry me in a long white dress. I want to take her far away and have her only want me. Only want Erik. Make her love Erik. Please make her love Erik!"

"_She will. Only you. You will be beautiful to her."_

When he allowed Megan to awaken, she rapidly looked back and forth, panicked. He folded his arms as she stared directly at him, her mouth falling open. Of course, she gasped, struggled, and begged. "Please, please, please. Please don't." And then she began to scream as though someone would actually hear her.

He was becoming numb to empathy as the thing took further control.

"Please, please, please, please—Help me! Help me! Help-"

"Hush!" he finally commanded. She lurched back, her face wet with tears and perspiration. The thing paralyzed her like a tightly wrapped blanket.

"_She is vulnerable. Go forward."_

Megan shrieked as he approached, even more terrified now that she couldn't move. She gasped as he tightly placed his hands on the sides of her head, her dark hair soft underneath his palms. Immediately, she stilled.

Her eyes closed, and she went limp, her head tilting slightly to the side. A soft sigh escaped her lips. They remained that way for a minute, motionless. The thing slithered around them and enfolded them in a cold embrace. Her shoulders rose up and sunk down with every slow breath. He removed his hands.

After ten seconds, her eyes opened, and she stared forward. She visibly swallowed. "Are you—Are you Christine's magical friend?" she whispered.

Christine had described him as magical? That was odd. The transformation must have alarmed her. Still he simply replied, "Yes."

"You're…real then. You're real."

"Apparently."

"Can-can you really do that? What you just showed me?"

"Yes."

She looked at him with fear and curiosity - and a slight glint of hope that was soon going to be her undoing. _"How?"_

The thing had been right, of course. The thing was always right. She was very receptive. Megan Giry was far more bright-eyed and optimistic than his beloved. And perhaps a bit more simple.

"With the smallest of prices," he softly replied, pointing his spidery index finger at himself and then at her. "Erik and Megan shall help each other."


	19. Chapter 19

Faster update this time, yes? This chapter's a bit more transitional, but we are heading quickly toward some craziness. Thank you all for your support!

**Read and Review!**

"A psychopath?"

He turned the laptop toward her. There were few lights on, and the screen cast an eerie white glow over them both. From March 17th, 2005. "Former Soldier and Three Others Charged With Shocking Hidden Glen Murders. Police Continue to Question Tenants." A picture of the main perpetrator was situated beside the text. He was blond and might have been handsome if not for his scowl. And the nearly deranged glint in his green eyes.

She shivered and brushed a strand of hair away from her moist cheeks.

"It's kind of disturbing," said Raoul as she approached. "Maybe you shouldn't—"

"No more protecting me from information." She sat down and began to read. The first article only began the story.

Her landlord Steven Breyer, whom she only remembered as being standoffish, was charged with killing eight homeless men and two prostitutes - souls who wouldn't be quickly missed. His girlfriend had finally turned him in and was charged with being an accessory to the crimes. Two of his friends, younger guys with beards and stringy dark hair, were also accomplices. Sometimes they would hide bodies in empty apartment units.

"That's terrible," she murmured.

"Probably psychos out for cheap thrills. It's scary to think you lived right there." Raoul started to stand. "Well, that's enough of that. Let's get back to Meg. I'd feel better if I got some strong coffee then went out to search for her. Sitting around here isn't doing anything."

"She's not out there. I want to read more about this." Christine did another search and found later stories. Her heart jumped.

"What's left to read?" asked Raoul.

She gestured to the screen. "Girlfriend Claims Murders Were Part Of Terrifying Ritual."

More details came. Steven had spent time in both Afghanistan and then Iraq. He'd become involved in some really strange activities when he'd returned. His lawyers were considering an insanity plea. PTSD. Because Steven apparently thought it was possible to become—

_Invincible._

Christine remembered that the unit beside her father's had been empty for about six months. They'd never heard or seen anything weird until she'd gone crazy.

The insanity plea failed. Her landlord had been sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. His girlfriend, Holly, was sentenced to ten years. There was a short interview with her before the story stopped making the news and was deemed as "a case of a bunch of disturbed individuals preying on the weak and destitute." Christine glanced at Holly's picture. She was mousy, skinny with dark blonde hair that fell to her chin. She looked very lost. Christine skimmed over the interview, focusing in on the whys of Steven's actions.

Annie (Interviewer): _"Tell me about Steven before he left."_

Holly:_ "He was smart and funny and ambitious. We were so happy. And we were going to start a family soon when he came back."_

Annie:_ "Any signs that something might be wrong?"_

Holly:_ "No, nothing!"_

Annie:_ "And when he came back?"_

Holly:_ "He looked like he'd seen a ghost. He wouldn't talk to me for a long while. He'd just sit out on the front porch and smoke and ignore me. I thought he hated me. You hear about that. Men coming back and not loving their girls anymore. But then he finally told me what he saw."_

Annie:_ "And what was that?"_

Holly:_ "He said…he said he saw a man who couldn't be killed—who couldn't die."_

Annie:_ "What do you mean? A solider who couldn't be killed?"_

Holly:_ "No. A powerful man, like a government figure or something. Someone shot at the man, and the bullets just stopped. He couldn't be killed or hurt."_

Annie:_ "Did you believe Steven?"_

Holly:_ "No, not really. I mean, I didn't think about it much. I just wanted our lives to be normal and happy again. He inherited those apartments from his parents, and they were bringing in money. We could have had anything we wanted. But Steven became obsessed! He wanted to know how he could become invincible, too. He would sit with stacks and stacks of old books. Or with his computer. Sometimes he'd chat with weird people online."_

Annie:_ "Why do you think it was so important to him?"_

Holly:_ "I guess cause—I guess cause he saw so many people die over there. One of his buddies was blown up by a roadside bomb. So to not die or be hurt, that was important to him. Does that make sense?"_

Annie:_ "Yes, Holly. Definitely. Did he ever find what he was looking for?"_

Holly:_ "Yes. He ordered this book from Italy. It cost him like two thousand dollars to get it here."_

Annie:_ "What did the book say that was so important?"_

Holly:_ "I never read it. But, one night, Steven came into our bedroom. He looked at me funny. And he said, 'Holly. We have to start a new chain. It's the only way. We have to start with one hundred sacrifices. And that'll start a chain.'"_

Annie:_ "Do you know what he meant by chain?"_

Holly:_ "Steven said he could only become invincible with the help of another. But not—I don't mean another person. He said he had to bring something else here to start a new chain. I didn't really understand."_

Annie:_ "So one hundred sacrifices, murders, and then he'd become invincible? That's the gist of what he believed?"_

Holly:_ "No. Well, yes, but that's not all. There have to be vessels to keep it going. Steven wanted me to the first vessel. I didn't want to be the vessel. And I started feeling really weird about things. So I got scared and told the police. Only ten people were dead. So he was real far off from the goal. That sounds awful out loud. _Only_ ten people. But that's what it was like, being trapped in Steven's craziness."_

Annie:_ "Did you ever witness the murders?"_

Holly:_ "No. I just…I knew what was happening kind of. He'd come home late. And I'd pretend to be asleep. I didn't ask. I just did what he told me to do."_

Annie:_ "You mentioned vessel. Could you explain what you mean by that?"_

Holly:_ "It's probably just crazy talk. Steven is nuts. He has to be, right? But he talked like he…liked we'd be starting some sort of family. Like I had to have a baby eventually. I don't really want to talk about this anymore. It's all crazy anyway. I loved him so much that I just didn't see it."_

Annie:_ "So you don't believe?"_

Holly:_ "I'd rather not think about it anymore. Ten years in here is what it got me. But maybe I'm safer in here than out there. Maybe."_

Annie:_ "Safer how?"_

Holly:_ "I don't want to talk about it anymore."_

Annie:_ "Well, we're about out of time. Thank you for agreeing to speak to us, Holly."_

Raoul hadn't left and was reading behind her. "Well, that's—"

"Crazy," Christine softly finished.

"Did you ever hear or see anything?" he asked, his arm slipping protectively around her waist.

"Not the people."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't hear the people they killed. But I think I heard whatever they were trying to…conjure." She stared at the floor as a sharp pain settled in her chest.

Had Erik killed one hundred people? Is that where the magic came from? When she'd first met him at the library, she hadn't sensed so much terror. She had felt genuine compassion for that man. And friendship and trust. Was she really that horrible a judge of character? Christine shook her head. This was no time for a pity party. "What is a vessel?" she muttered to herself. "What is this thing they're talking about? How does it make them invincible? We've got to find Meg. We've got to draw Erik out."

"How?" asked Raoul. She was grateful that his disbelief had morphed into reluctant uncertainty.

"I don't know." She threw up her hands and swallowed her fear. "I'm going back to the apartment where I was held. That's a start."

"What?! No way in hell. Let's get the police there."

"That'll make things worse. I have to go."

"Then I'm coming, too," he stated. "You're not going there alone."

"You have to stay in the car while I go up. He could very well kill you if you're there."

"What about you? Won't he hurt you?"

She hesitated. "If Erik is at the point where he'd kill me, then-then everything is lost anyway. There's not hope for anyone."

Because that was the only thing that kept her going—that she could still reach him. That the man who had helped her all semester in the library was still in there somewhere.

They dozed at her apartment until sunrise. Raoul continued to declare that they should involve the police, but she refused to agree to that. They climbed back into the rental car, and she gave Raoul directions. Christine remembered exactly how to get there. It was burned into her memory like a vivid nightmare. Her heart pounded as she began to recognize that portion of the city. The red-roofed Chinese restaurant. The flower shop with the kindly man. She listened but heard nothing in her mind. Finally, they were in front of the looming building.

"This looks fairly normal," said Raoul, bending his neck to look out the front window. "I thought you might be taking me to Dracula's castle or something."

She stared as well, finding it almost disturbingly banal. This was the place that had caused so much terror?

"What's the plan?" he asked, nervously bending his fingers. "Should we have brought some sort of weapon?"

"No. The plan is I go up there and talk to him."

"Are you crazy?" She glared. "Sorry. Sorry. But this guy kidnapped you. He's involved in God knows what. He might have Meg. And you're just going up there? No way. I'm coming with you."

She should have known that Raoul wouldn't agree to let her go up alone. And, honestly, Christine didn't know if she had the stomach to charge up there all by herself. They couldn't turn back now—not when Meg might be suffering. She swallowed her fear and placed her fingers on the car door handle. "Walk behind me," she commanded. "And if I tell you to run, you have to run."

He didn't reply. She wondered if he even believed her. With a sigh, Christine opened her door, continuing to listen for head humming. They entered the glass doors and climbed the iron stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly. "Place is kind of empty," said Raoul.

"That's why he liked it."

She led them out of the stairwell and down a short corridor. Christine again squeezed her eyes shut and listened. Nothing. She placed her ear to the door and still heard silence. Raoul twisted the silver knob. The door was unlocked and started to squeak open. "Be careful!" she nearly hissed. "Stop. Let me go first."

"I don't think anyone's here, Christine."

Neither did she. "Erik?" she whispered as Raoul opened the door all the way. But the place was utterly empty. The living room. The kitchen. Her room. There was no furniture, no belongings. It was like no one had ever lived there. She heard nothing in her head except distant echoes of what had once been. "Erik!" she shouted.

"There's no one here," said Raoul, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's empty, sweetheart."

Her arms dropped to her sides. Two times, she walked through the rooms, desperately looking for some sign that the whole thing was not a product of her imagination. During the second walkthrough, Christine spotted it. In the furthest corner of 'her' bedroom. A gold heart-shaped container, about the size of a plum. Her hands trembled as she picked it up. There was a part of her that wondered if she'd find something gruesome inside—like a piece of Meg. With a swallow, Christine clicked it open as Raoul looked on behind her.

Inside was a white piece of paper that had been folded into a heart shape. She quickly unfolded it.

_I doubt you will see this, my little love. After all, why would you return to Hell when you tried so very hard to escape it? But I could not leave without a last word to my angel. Know that I will seek you out once I can be the man you want. I do not hate you. I do not blame you. No one wants a hideous and disgusting monster. I will do what must be done. And then you will always love Erik. –E_

"What the hell does this mean?" Raoul asked.

"I don't know. I have no idea what he's going to do. But—_Meg._" She ran out of the apartment and screamed into the stairwells. "Erik! Erik! Erik!"

But there was nothing.

And she was out of ideas.

* * *

><p>"Is there someone else here, Erik? I feel like someone else is here."<p>

"Yes, there is someone else."

"Who?"

"Our Companion. Our Master. The One who will save both of us, dear Megan."

"Oh."

"Our Master says that you are very beautiful. Our Master is pleased with you."

"That's good. I don't want to be a disappointment. I always kind of felt like one." She shuddered. Her breath was visible even though the cabin was warmer. She wrapped the white cotton blanket tightly around her shoulders. As the thing placed its claim upon her, Megan became more docile and willing.

He gave her three meals of decent quality - meat, rice or pasta, and a vegetable. He left her a pile of books to read and a radio. While the cabin now possessed weak electricity, it had no television. But that did not matter as Megan spent most of her hours staring at the wall. That was how the previous girl had been once the ritual was initiated. The process was energy draining, and it was better for everyone if the vessel remained in a half-catatonic state. Especially if, as in Megan's case, her participation was less than enthusiastic. The previous girl had been much more eager, her goals much more tangible.

Twice, Megan had bolted for the locked door. He cringed and followed her as she pulled on the knob. The first time, he merely picked her up and placed her back down in the chair. He again rested his bony hands on the side of her head and silently reminded her of what she would become when all this was over. She quieted.

The second time, he folded his arms and asked, "You do not want to be great, Megan? You do not want to be a shining star?"

"I'm frightened," she replied, on her knees at the door. "I don't know what's happening! I'm scared!"

"Fear always predates greatness," he replied. "Let me show you now. Stand, Megan. Stand up." She obeyed, her legs shaky and weak. "Relax, and the Master will demonstrate. Simply relax your muscles. And let the Other work. Then you will understand."

And she did. She gave into the thing for five minutes, allowing _it_ to take over limbs. She danced all across the room. After that, Megan half-crawled, half-walked back to the chair and sat down again. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she placed her chin on them. "That was amazing," she whispered. Megan didn't try to escape after that. She'd had a taste of magic and of pure perfection.

The ritual was moving along much more quickly than last time. There was more room for error. Yet the thing was adamant about accomplishing the task as soon as possible—probably because of the failure with the last girl. Erik's failure.

He forced himself through all the necessary steps. He trampled upon what little remained of his conscience. For Christine. This was all for her love. She would adore him when this was complete, and then he would never be ugly or alone again.

"Megan, it is time to test your faith." There were hundreds of ways to do this. He chose a simpler method.

She looked at him and blinked. "How?"

He'd started a fire in the hearth for warmth. The flames danced and flickered atop the logs, casting eerie shadows over them both. "Put your hand in the fire."

Megan shrunk back into the chair. "I'll get burned."

"If you believe as you say you do, you will put your hand in the fire." He chuckled. "You are fortunate that I am not asking you to dive off a cliff or stick a knife into your hand. Others have been asked to do much worse. Think of the reward. No risk, no reward—yes?"

She hesitated. And he sensed that the thing was also encouraging her. _It _was bonding with her. Eventually, _it_ would completely attach itself to her. Until Megan had a child.

If the child were a girl, the thing would remain distantly attached, biding its time until a male heir was produced. As with Madeleine. If the child was a boy—Well, then the baby would belong to the thing. Just like Erik.

Simple, really.

Megan dropped to her knees in front of the fire, the blanket still securely wrapped around her shoulders. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her hand out toward the flames.

"Open your eyes!" he snapped.

She slowly obeyed. The reflection of the fire blended with the color of her dark irises. Hypnotized, she touched it. Her hand lingered for ten seconds. "It doesn't hurt," she murmured. "It's not even hot. It's nearly cold, Erik." It was as though an invisible shield covered her hand and forced the flames away. "That's so strange."

He softly chuckled and forced back the nagging sensation in his chest. Guilt was for the weak. Guilt was for the defeated. "See? You are under the Master's protection now, dear child. And the Master will soon give us both what we desire."

Megan slowly withdrew her hand and fell back onto her knees. Her eyes were glazed over as the thing enshrouded her. The fire went out in a cloud of black smoke. She didn't seem to notice.

And Megan didn't seem to notice that she was now floating a foot off the ground. The thing lifted her up with invisible arms and placed her back on the chair._ It_ pulled the blanket up to her chin. She slept.

The thing was highly pleased.

Suddenly, he sensed a tightness within his black mask. Groaning in discomfort, he turned away and took it off. Placing his hand to his face, he looked at his reflection in the frosted window.

He was less ugly. And he felt and saw the beginnings of a nose. A stub—but still a little lump of a new nose.

He let out a cry of delight_. Erik's nose!_

Christine would love Erik so much more with a nose.

* * *

><p>Every night, Christine would stand on Raoul's front porch and listen. Every night, she heard nothing except the wind, passing cars, and distant laughter of children. Sometimes she would return to campus and walk around the buildings of the university, into aged basements and unused labs and every other forgotten crevice. She returned with Raoul to the forest area where Meg had disappeared. They had walked for two miles as they desperately called out to her. Christine spent nights waiting at the window until Raoul begged her to come to bed.<p>

She wouldn't agree to give the police Erik's note; it didn't even mention Meg. He could not be fought or defeated. Her only hope was that he could still be reasoned with—and that it wasn't too late.

She spent hours trying to figure out her past and searched for more details concerning what had happened in those apartment complexes. There was little information online, and 'vessel' could have a lot of different meanings. She kept running across stories of possession, which was disturbing.

Then there were days when Christine tried to pretend that everything was normal. On the twenty-third of December, she stood in line at a clothing store, holding a silky blue scarf for Meg. Then she bought some video games and DVDs for Raoul. She admired the colorful lights, red ribbons, and green wreaths.

On Christmas Eve, they had Meg's parents over in the afternoon. There was eggnog and store-bought frosted cookies and awkward conversation about finding Meg. Toward the end of the visit, as they were standing by the door, Mrs. Giry suddenly grabbed Raoul's wrist and said, "Please. Please if you know something, just tell me what happened to her. I won't tell the police. I swear I won't. I just need to know what happened to my baby. Please!"

Mr. Giry grabbed his wife's arm. "Stop it, Honey. They didn't do this. They don't know."

"They have to know something! They saw her last! People don't just disappear! What did you do to my daughter?! What did you do to her?"

Wide-eyed, Raoul placed a trembling hand on her arm. "Mrs. Giry," he whispered. "If I knew anything, I would tell you. We'd do anything to get her back. We look for her every day."

Mrs. Giry released Raoul and began to cry. Mr. Giry led her outside. "Merry Christmas," he sadly murmured. "Thanks for having us."

Raoul's parents were out of town on their planned vacation. Although his mother had offered to stay in the state to be supportive, Raoul told them to enjoy their holiday. "Their interference would just make things weirder," he'd said. Christine had to agree. The fewer people involved, the better.

On Christmas morning, Raoul hesitantly gave her a pair of shiny pearl earrings wrapped in a shimmering blue box. She hugged and thanked him, then gave him his gifts. They sat on the couch and watched a Christmas comedy movie and drank hot chocolate with marshmallows. Flurries fell outside.

On New Year's Eve, they went to a party at Raoul's friend's large home. They drank silver champagne from slim glasses and watched the ball drop. They kissed at midnight as young people cheered around them, an upbeat pop song playing in the background.

It snowed in early January, and many of the roads and businesses were shut down for half a week. When the weather started to clear, she and Raoul walked outside to make a much-needed trip to the store. Toilet paper was running low. As they approached the snowy driveway, Christine heard a thud and felt something strike the arm of her coat. Raoul had hit her with a snowball. She bent down and gathered snow into her gloved hands. He ran away, his black boots sinking into the white powder. She chased him around a tree and down the street where he hid behind a neighbors' brick mailbox. Christine tried to throw the packed snow up into the air so that it would land on him. It plopped on the ground behind him instead. He laughed.

She pretended to turn around and walk home in defeat. Quickly, she grabbed another handful of snow and threw it at him as he came out from behind the mailbox. He groaned as the ball hit him in the chest. She giggled for several seconds. And then she started to cry.

"Hey, hey," he said running up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…you know….I haven't forgotten. I—"

"No, no," she whispered with a sigh. "It's fine to have fun. It's fine to laugh. It's—what else can we do? What do we do?"

"I don't know," he murmured as they headed back to the car.

There was one time, near the middle of January, when she thought she heard _him._ She was sitting on Raoul's couch reading a book. A deep humming began in her head, almost unnoticeable at first. As the volume increased, Christine set down her cup of herbal tea so hard that the liquid splashed onto the coffee table. "What's wrong?" asked Raoul, looking up from the television.

Without a word, she jumped up and ran out of the house. The dark sound made the hairs on her arms stand on end. And then the noise began to fade as though Erik were backing away. She continued to race toward it through the dark. "Erik! Erik, come back! Please! Please talk to me!"

But then it was gone. With a frustrated cry, she turned around and went inside.

"Are you okay?" Raoul asked. "What happened? What did you hear?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Maybe it was just my imagination." She didn't feel like explaining.

The darkness of the humming was worse than she ever remembered. It shook her core and made her cold the rest of the night, as though evil had kissed her cheek. And Christine then wondered if she was even dealing with Erik anymore.

It barely felt like him.

She felt like dropping her spring classes and soon mentioned this to Raoul.

"What? Why?" he asked, glancing up from a ham sandwich.

"How can I concentrate?" she asked. "How can I even care about grades and exams and papers?"

"Christine." He swallowed his food and then softly asked, "What if we never find her?"

"Don't say that!"

"I blame myself, too. I was out there that day. But—we have to keep living, Christine. Until there's some breakthrough. We can't just stop."

He was right.

So she went to her first class. And her second and third class. She missed having Meg there —to fret with her about overwhelming syllabi or snide professors.

And what was worse, she missed Erik. The _old _Erik. The sickly man who had patiently helped her with her music studies and singing, who had listened as she worried about her life. He had been a friend and a mentor. But he was gone now. Maybe he'd never existed.

She and Raoul went out to dinner for Valentine's Day.

"How are you doing?" he asked, taking her hand over the spotless white tablecloth.

"Oh." She sighed. "Getting through each day, you know?"

"Yeah. You're doing really well, Christine. I was worried about you, but you're doing well."

"I was wondering," she began, swallowing some wine. "Do you—do you believe me now? Or do you still think I'm not right in the head?"

He hesitated and gave her hand a squeeze. "I believe something horrible happened to you. Whoever took Meg…whoever took you….That's all real. It wasn't just you. I still don't completely understand what's happened."

"Neither do I. But I—"

Christine heard a gasp and then a soft squeal behind her. She turned to look. A man was down on one knee proposing to a pretty woman. The woman was covering her mouth with her slender hands, nodding and silently crying as he took the ring from a black box and slipped it onto her fourth finger. He stood, and they hugged and kissed. Several people in the restaurant applauded. An old man whistled his approval.

Raoul softly chuckled as Christine turned back around. "I'm always worried the guy is going to get rejected in public," he said. "Or like when those guys propose at sports games on the big screens? Imagine getting rejected right there. Or—" He must have seen the wide-eyed expression on her face. "What's wrong?"

It took her a second to reply. "I think I know how to draw Erik out."

"How?"

"It's very dangerous. Especially for you. It's really, really bad."

"How, Christine?!" He leaned forward.

She took a deep breath. "Let's go somewhere where no one can hear us."


	20. Chapter 20

The third POV in this chapter is a bit complex, but I think it should make sense. If you have any questions, I'll be happy to reply.

Here we go! Thank you for all your words of encouragement. Enjoy!

**Read and Review!**

Three weeks.

Three weeks until the final ceremony that would seal their fates. Unlike last time, the thing had given him his face in bits and pieces, encouraging him along. Or what remained of him.

"I need you to recite these lines, Megan." He tapped his curved index finger against the parchment in a red cloth book. Alexander had given it to him long ago. _Everything you need will be in here, Erik. This fixes everything._

She stared up at him with eyes that looked like fogged glass. "What will they do?"

"Affirm your allegiance to the Master. I will silently recite them with you."

She took the book, her arms swaying slightly with its heaviness, and started to read aloud, "To that which is, I will offer my—" She choked on her voice. "My blood? But—"

"No. It is not literal. I will not draw blood or harm you. It means you offer your lineage."

"My what?"

"You make the Master part of yourself, part of your family."

"Oh. How do I do that?"

"By accepting the Master into yourself."

"To that which is, I will offer my blood." She sniffled. "Erik, I still don't understand this."

The thing became angry by her reluctance. So did Erik. "Do you want to be an unwanted, pathetic little thing again?" he snapped. "Do you want to be disgusting?!"

Her eyes welled up with tears. "No." Her limp hair shook along with her head. "I don't want that. I don't want to be disgusting!"

"Then obey me! Or else she will hate you! She'll hate you! She'll hate you!"

Megan squinted. "What? Who will hate me, Erik? Who are you talking about?"

He quickly regained control of himself. "Nothing. No one. But everyone will love you if you do as I say, yes? You will do as I say?"

"Will we have to be here forever?" She glanced around the dim, cold cabin.

"No. Soon we will be able to rejoin the world. Like normal people. Better than normal fools. And it will be so very marvelous for us both. Just a little while longer."

"Okay," she whispered.

"Will you recite the lines?"

"Yes, Erik."

"Good girl."

She started to look down at the yellowed page again. Then she glanced back up and softly asked, "Why do you wear a mask? Is that part of the ritual?"

"Recite the lines, Megan."

"To that which is, I will offer my blood…."

The time was drawing nearer. He could feel himself, his soul, continue to flicker like a dying candle.

While the thing had promised his continued existence, sometimes the situation was actually less excruciating if he temporarily gave _it_ control. That way, Christine's absence pained him much less. He stopping having nightmares about her. And beautiful dreams where he was forced to wake up to her absence.

On one night, he could not help but approach the boy's house, wanting just a glimpse of her. Hearing him, Christine came out. She called for him. But he was still too hideous to see her again.

After Megan recited the lines, he could see the blood and energy drain from her face. And he knew he was destroying this poor girl from the inside out. Even after she received her part of the terrible bargain, her life would be forever warped.

He went and sat at the small white table in the kitchen, left behind by the cabin's former occupants. Its edges were chipped and broken. He removed his mask and buried his face into his hands. A nose touched his middle finger. The bones of his cheeks protruded less. The flesh was not disgustingly dry.

He remembered what a priest had once quietly said to him after attempting a failed exorcism. _"The greatest irony of all is that, the more of a monster you are in the inside, the less you look like one on the outside. When you've committed the greatest evil, you'll be a very handsome man."_

"_That is not irony,"_ he had dully replied. _"That is brilliant."_

A small hand touched his shoulder. He flinched. Turning and peeking through his fingers, he saw Megan standing there.

"What's wrong?" she softly asked.

'Nothing," he snapped. "Go away. Leave Erik alone."

"The Master will make everything better, right, Erik?" She blinked at him. "We'll be okay. Don't cry. I won't cry anymore. I'm not afraid of greatness now."

She was not quite herself. And he was not really himself.

His conscience made one last fight as he stared at her. Another innocent victim. "Megan, I do not know if I can—"

"Why do you always wear that mask?"

He swallowed. For a moment, he turned his head away. Slowly…very slowly…he removed his hands from his face. He curved toward her, bracing himself for screams that never came. They locked gazes.

"Do you think I need one?" he finally asked.

She blinked again. "You could use some sun, I think. That's what I'm going to do when this is done. We can both get sun when this is over, right, Erik? I miss the sun so much."

He released a choked laugh and turned away from her again. "Go back to sleep, Megan. Please go. Leave me alone."

She stared at him a moment longer. Then she released his shoulder and left.

And how could he ever go back? When he now had solid proof that he was no longer a hideous freak of nature? Women no longer screamed at him. She would no longer hate him.

It was far too late to turn back.

* * *

><p>"It has to look believable. Not over the top. But not too subtle either."<p>

She paced and stared at the dry brown grass, a hand on her forehead. They were at the lake beside the park near campus, which had long frozen over. The ducks and turtles were gone. Children were tucked inside their warm homes, easily provided with an excuse to play video games or watch television. She and Raoul were alone. In the spot that had once provided them with picnics and silly conversations. In an old world that had once made sense.

Raoul was sitting on the wooden bench, leaning forward with his hands folded. He looked increasingly disturbed as she explained the plan. "You really think this will work?"

"It's the only thing I can think of. If we're running off to elope somewhere far away, he'd have to stop us from leaving."

"Why not have a fake wedding here?"

"Because people will want to come, and they might end up hurt. What if he doesn't show up until the day of the actual wedding and - Well, I don't even want to think about that. But we can't involve anyone else."

"You really think he'll—"

"Care that much?" she softly finished. "I don't know. But it's the only thing he'd care about at all. Money isn't going to work. Threats won't work. There's nothing else he wants. You saw that letter."

He rubbed the toe of his boot in the dirt. "My mother is going to be ticked off if she thinks I didn't have a wedding."

She gave him an irritated look. "So you're not going to help save Meg's life because your mother will be temporarily mad?"

"Of course I will. I'm just trying to think of all the consequences to this. We'll have to explain to everyone afterwards, you know?"

"I'm sorry. I know. But isn't it worth it to get Meg back?"

"Of course it is. A million times over. Isn't this dangerous, though? I guess I'm still not sure what to expect."

"There's nothing to expect," she replied, brushing her hair out of her face. "I just need him to come out so that I can talk to him." Seeing the skepticism on Raoul's face, Christine continued, "The thing is, we're in danger even if we do nothing. I don't think he's taken Meg and left the country. I think he's going to come back. But, by that time, it might be too late for her. And maybe too late for us. That's why we have to act. We have to get some of our power back!" She tried to sound brave even as her stomach turned.

"Yeah. I see what you mean. So…how do we start?"

"Well. I guess you should spend money in a jewelry store. Then charge it to your credit card."

Raoul flinched. "He can see that? My bank account?"

"Probably." She continued to pace. "After that, okay—After that, plane tickets and hotel reservations. I'll buy a dress. We have to pretend that it's going to happen. We're really going to elope somewhere. What would we do? What would we buy?"

"An announcement in the paper?"

"That'll look like we're trying too hard. But let's put it online."

Raoul chuckled. "So I can't keep my relationship status as "It's complicated" anymore?"

She whacked him on the shoulder as she walked by. "That'll be perfect. Put that we're engaged. And then some message about how we're excited for our upcoming trip. Make it kind of mysterious."

"When do you think he'll, uh, appear?"

"That's the scary part." She rubbed her arm and looked at the empty and distant playground, the wind rocking the black swings back and forth. "It could be any time. The second you buy the tickets or put it online. Or it might not be until the day we're leaving. Or anytime in between."

"Jesus," he murmured. "I can already feel my stomach tightening up."

"I know." She sat down on the bench and buried her face in her hands. "This is terrifying."

He rubbed her back. "Are you sure you want to do it?"

"Yes. Too much time has passed. None of this was Meg's fault, but she's out there somewhere going through God knows what. Yes, we have to do this."

"All right. We'll get started on our…pretend engagement. Heh." They sat in silence for several seconds. He kissed her cheek suddenly. "This is all kind of crazy," he said. "I mean, I know it's not real. And it's dangerous. And Meg. But just, you know, the adrenaline."

Christine weakly smiled. What she didn't tell Raoul was that, at best, this would end probably with them separated forever. Because she was ready to make that bargain now—herself in exchange for Meg. Of course, she was scared to death. But Christine was also more certain of her sanity. And maybe if she could just hold onto her mind, she could begin to make some sense of Erik. Maybe she could finally understand what he really wanted…what he was.

She would have to keep close to Raoul in case Erik ever approached. Christine insisted on going with him to the jewelry store, and they picked out a ring together. A gold band with white diamonds decorating it in spirals. She made him come with her to pick out a dress at a high-end department store. It was a simpler design, the straps tying in a bow around her neck and the body a straight line of floral-printed lace that flowed down to her ankles.

Passports would take too long, so they decided to resume her original plans and head to Hawaii. It was still far, and Erik wouldn't be able to reach her by land. He would have no choice but to stop her from boarding that plane if he wanted to prevent her from getting married. It created a dangerously desperate situation but also involved few other people.

She waited for Erik every day, holding her breath whenever they went out to do wedding-related things. But once everything was bought and paid for, there'd still been no sign of him. No head humming or tingles. No notes or phone messages.

One of Raoul's cousins saw his social networking page and immediately informed his mother. Christine felt guilty as he had a long phone conversation with Mrs. Chagny. He was firm but gentle. "This is what Christine and I want. A small, private event. We don't want a big, expensive wedding."

"What am I going to tell your grandmother?" Mrs. Chagny wailed on the other side.

"Tell her we'll invite her to the party when we come back. An elopement party."

"Oh, well, that's just great. I'm sure she'll be thrilled." Her sarcasm was evident. "I can't believe this, Raoul. Don't I get any say? I'm your mother!"

The conversation continued like that for nearly ten minutes.

"When this is over, you can tell her the truth," said Christine when they next visited the park. They had agreed to never talk about the Plan while at Raoul's house or any other place that might have invisible ears.

"That we did this to draw out a kidnapper with superpowers?" he wryly asked.

"Tell her we decided she was right about the whole thing. Then she'll love you forever."

This made Raoul smile.

The days ticked by, and all their plans were in place. They had an expensive suite on the coast reserved, with a perfect view of the Pacific Ocean. A cute white church beneath palm trees and an appointment with a minister. They'd even chosen seafood restaurants and scuba diving classes and beaches. Mini golf and volcanic craters and dolphins. And as the day of departure loomed, it all became more real.

"So I guess we start packing," she said as they sat on their park bench. It was two days before they left. And still nothing. "This has to look legit to the very end."

"Yeah," Raoul murmured. He'd become more awkward as the day approached. "But what if—What if he doesn't show?"

Christine hesitated. "We go to Hawaii, I guess."

"Would we actually get married?"

"I don't know." She bit her lip, unable to think of these things now, the emotional implications and complications.

"But—"

"If we actually land in Hawaii, we'll make a new plan."

Marriage was often described as the highest form of commitment. But that didn't mean Erik couldn't take her afterwards. Kill her husband. For all she knew, Erik would appear two…three…ten years later and steal her away. Still, Christine was relying on the idea that Erik would despise the idea of her and Raoul getting married far too much to actually let it take place. He would see it as Raoul winning.

But then the day before their flight arrived. And still there was nothing.

Her hands were shaking as the clock hit 6 PM. She gave Raoul a desperate and sad look, mouthing, "What do we do?"

He hugged her from the side. "It's going to be okay," he said. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be, well, you know. Crazy."

She nodded and softly sighed. After drinking a glass of cold water, she pulled a blanket over her entire body and tried to calm down in front of the television. Christine closed her eyes, breathing in and out as she counted down from one hundred. A laugh track played on the television. She nodded off.

She never heard Raoul leave.

* * *

><p>There was a glint of certainty in Megan's eyes now. The fear was fading as she embraced her destiny. She hadn't tried to escape for some time. She cried less and asked fewer questions. There was a whitish glow to her skin and a stiffness to her movements.<p>

They were both half-possessed creatures now.

And it was the thing, and not Erik, who said to Megan one evening: "We are going out to celebrate tonight. Leaving this dark little hole for a bit."

Megan turned in her chair. "Celebrate what, Erik?"

Bemused laughter. "Our success, of course, my darling. Our upcoming victory."

"Oh. Yes. That." She rigidly stood like a windup doll.

Erik had given her some of Christine's unused clothing. The long turquoise velvet dress was slightly too large. Her skinny arms were nearly lost in the loose sleeves. The neckline scooped a bit low. But it was good enough.

In the dim winter light, they looked almost normal. Almost entirely like human beings. He—or rather _It_ led them to a black car about a hundred yards away. The snow had melted, and they walked along a dry dirt ground beneath pine trees. The dry, brown needles softened their steps. Erik's hands mechanically shifted and steered, his foot touching the brake and accelerator at all the appropriate moments. And she stared out the window, her lips tightly pressed together and her hands folded into a ball. They emerged after the car was parked to the side of the street. No one glanced twice at them. If anyone ever recognized Megan as a missing person, the thing dulled their thoughts just enough to make them forget.

And while pathetic Erik was unused to crowds, the thing was perfectly able to walk confidently out in public and sit down in a four-star restaurant. The interior was dark, unaware couples immersed in quiet conversations all around them. Silverware clinked.

"What can I get for you tonight?" asked a smiling young waiter, turning over their wine glasses and setting out thick cloth napkins.

"Let's start with your most expensive champagne." Erik's voice emerged, but there was a hollowness to the sound.

"Excellent choice, Sir. It's a blend of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. Celebrating something special?"

"Why yes." A pause. "Endless success."

The waited uncomfortably laughed and scratched his head. "Ah. Heh. Well, that is something to celebrate." Humans could always sense that something was slightly off. But they were too stupid to ever really _know._

Megan softly chattered, "I could return to New York City by next year, I bet. I could try out."

"You would get a part immediately." _It_ smiled with Erik's lips. "You will dance like that forever. And you will have millions of admirers. No more starving yourself for mediocrity. No more begging for pitiful little roles. No more men who leave you after a night. Another failed dancer mopping up sodas spilled by screaming brats? Never again."

"Oh, I feel so beautiful!" she exclaimed so loudly that a group of men having a business dinner glanced at her. And then leered.

_It _softly laughed. "I knew I hadn't a made a mistake with you. You are so sweet, Megan. So trusting and so sweet."

Erik's body did not require food, but _it _ate for appearances. Megan hesitantly stared at her plate of pasta covered in a light cream sauce. "Go on, my little love. You will have the body of a dancer no matter what you do, remember? No more worries."

"Really?" she whispered, leaning forward in her seat. In her excitement, she knocked over her wine. Megan didn't notice the touch of magic as the glass righted itself, immune to gravity. An ancient force.

"The rules do not apply to us," _it_ continued. "We are like—Gods!" Her eyes sparkled with delight at this.

Yes, it was the thing who had dinner with Megan that evening. Another bonding ritual.

Whenever Erik recalled parts of that night, he remembered the moments as one would recall a movie. He could see that tall, thin man (himself!) clink glasses with Megan and say, "To our success, my darling." He could see that man laugh and talk and scheme. But _it_ wasn't him. _It_ wasn't Erik.

Not because the thing had possessed him against his will.

But because Erik didn't want to be there, partaking in dinner with his innocent and naïve victim. Let the thing do that. The thing possessed no guilt.

When they returned from the strange outing, Erik reclaimed his body. His mind started to think of Christine. He could have dinner with Christine like a normal man now, he realized. He could soon do everything with her like a normal man.

On a highly advanced phone, he clicked through the methods he had of tracking her and that wretched boy. Bank accounts and the like.

There had been quite a few recent and expensive purchases. Flight tickets, clothing, jewelry.

Odd.

After a hesitation, he checked Chagny's social networking site.

"_Heard about the engagement, dude! Congrats!"_

"_Omg! Congrats, Raoul and Christine! When's the wedding? I'm invited, right?"_

And the idiot boy's reply_—"Thanks, guys! We're excited! Off on an awesome trip to Hawaii soon!"_

He hurled the phone against the wooden wall where it clattered and the screen cracked straight down the middle.

Torrents of red-hot rage. Stinging pain. Nauseating despair. Blinding hatred. He marched out of the cabin. The door slammed behind him, and he ignored Megan's cry of fright. He was ready to take Christine back, ready to cleanly snap Chagny's neck for coming up with this disgusting idea. That very night. He would take her back that very night.

But the thing protested, _"It is too early. And they are nothing in the scheme of things. Silly children! A distraction! Concentrate on our mission for now. On Megan. That is where our victory lies, Erik! With Megan!"_

"He will never marry her! If Chagny marries Christine, you will never have Megan, you vile and evil thing! How is that?!" He was hoarsely screaming now, his voice echoing into the forest. "He will not marry her. That idiot will never marry my Christine. She is mine! Erik's! Mine! Mine! No, she is Erik's!" He nearly started to sob as he hollered, his face tilted upward toward the clear night sky, faced with the vision of never having her.

In her was life. In her was salvation and paradise. She was all he had left to cling to now. And he would never let her go.

But as the thing continued to protest, threatening to melt his new face way, he finally agreed to wait until the last reasonable second to take her back. And the thing promised to help when that time arrived.

"_I am your friend, Erik. Trust me. We will both receive what we want. Trust me…."_

* * *

><p>Over the last couple of months, Raoul had spent a lot of time trying to determine what was real.<p>

Christine had disappeared. And then reappeared. At first, she'd seemed like she was losing her mind. Now she seemed…kind of okay.

Meg was gone. And it didn't seem like she was ever coming back. That was not okay.

So now they were trying to find this infamous and elusive Erik. Despite the note, he still wasn't a hundred percent sure that this guy even existed. Yet he went along with Christine's plan because there was nothing left to do. Because this situation couldn't be explained by logic, and there was no way to create a more practical strategy.

And if Erik didn't exist…if this was all in Christine's head…there wasn't any real danger, right?

The day before they departed arrived, and Raoul was ninety-nine percent certain nothing was going to happen. He packed as if they were really leaving for a Hawaiian adventure. Maybe it'd be good for her to get away for a while. Away from the grey and cold and absence of her friend. Maybe it'd be good for them both to get away. Even if they didn't get married.

Would they get married? The idea didn't exactly make him unhappy. But this was all so damn messed up….

Her anxiety was rubbing off on him. His stomach churned as he watched her nod off on the couch that evening. For a few moments, he attempted to watch television, some sitcom about young adults trying to make it after college. Their problems seemed kind of silly after what he and Christine had been through those last months.

"Ugh, I need to get out," he muttered. Raoul stood and threw on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He started to grab his headphones but decided silence would be better.

She'd told him to be very careful going out by himself. But what did a short jog hurt?

Leaning down, he kissed Christine's forehead and said, "Going out for a quick run. Be back in thirty or so."

She muttered something back to him that sounded like, "Have fun."

He smiled, grabbed his phone, and left. The weather was a little less cold. The breeze felt refreshing on his face as he ran forward down the sidewalk, footsteps pounding. Exercise was great for tension release. And tomorrow was going to be really, really tense—especially when Christine realized that nothing was happening except a trip to Hawaii. He didn't know how she'd take it. Probably not well.

And then what? What the heck had happened to Meg?

He forced the thoughts from his head and continued forward, taking in a deep breath of fresh air.

As he jogged several blocks away from his apartment, Raoul started to feel a little funny. Like he was being watched. He glanced around at the houses, yards, and shadows. The streetlights were on, and the sun had nearly set. A couple of little girls were giggling and playing with dolls on their front porch. One waved at him. Raoul waved back and shrugged off the feeling.

He turned the next corner. The homes were a little larger and a little older on this street. The trees were taller, casting longer shadows. It was here that he saw someone standing next to a shiny black car. The headlights were off, and so all Raoul could see at first was a tall figure. He squinted as he came closer. The other person stared back.

He was a decent looking middle-aged man of good height with dark hair, dressed in an expensive looking black suit. The strange angle of the streetlight made his eyes flicker between black and gold. There was something a little off about him that Raoul couldn't describe. More a feeling than a look. Raoul started to pass, but the man spoke. His voice was strange, pleasant but eerie. "Good evening."

"Evening," Raoul replied with a nod, slightly out of breath.

"Young man, I was wondering if you could help me with something."

His voice was slightly hypnotizing. Raoul stopped running and turned to face him. "Um, maybe. With what?"

"My car has died, and I am quite a few miles from my home. I have foolishly left my phone at work. Would you be so kind as to lend yours?"

Raoul hesitated, his head fuzzy as though he'd put away a few too many beers. His surroundings felt less real, the shadows bending. "Um, sure. That would be okay." He slipped his phone out of the pocket of his sweatshirt and pushed the dial button. The screen lit up. He stepped forward and offered it.

The man made no move to take the phone. "I was wondering, as you seem like quite a bright young man. Do you know anything about auto repair?"

"A little bit," said Raoul, nervously scratching his neck. "Not a lot."

"Ah. Well, I think it might simply be trouble with the engine." The hood of the car suddenly popped up. Raoul never saw the man push a button, but maybe it was on his keys. The man's hands were still kind of hidden in the dark. "What do you think? I so value your opinion." The man smiled, but there was again something off about it. Something eerie…almost scornful.

Raoul briefly glanced inside. "Uh, could be. But I'm not great at this kind of thing. You should probably have it looked at by a real mechanic." He held out his phone again. The man still refused to take it.

"I apologize. Am I keeping you from something or perhaps someone? Are you in a hurry?"

"Oh. Not really. I—"

"Busy day tomorrow?" the man continued. "Heading to bed early so you can get a nice, bright start in the morning? Is that it?"

Raoul hesitated. "Kind of. Heh. How did you-"

"Going somewhere important, perhaps?"

"Well, yeah, actually." He started to back away. Warning bells were ringing in his mind. His stomach tightened. "Hey. I really need to get home. If you want to make a quick call—"

"Yes, _she_ will miss you if you are not home soon, won't she?" The hood of the car suddenly slammed closed, starling Raoul so badly that he jumped into the air. His phone was ripped from his hand by an invisible force. It landed on the ground with a loud clatter.

"What the hell—" As Raoul's heart hammered in his chest, the man's eyes suddenly glowed bright yellow. And Raoul wondered—but it couldn't be! The way Christine had described Erik's face. This couldn't be him! This couldn't be real!

"Was it your idea?" The man's voice seemed to echo. "This marriage? It was your idea, boy, wasn't it? Did you get on one knee and propose? Did she cry? Was it simply splendid? Oh, I bet it was to die for!"

Suddenly, Raoul felt a tightening around his neck. He reached up with his fingers, but there was nothing. Invisible hands were strangling him! "No," he gasped, continuing to claw at his neck. "No, it wasn't. It's—not—real - _Stop!"_ Unable to breathe, he sunk to his knees. He gasped as the dark world spun. "Please! Stop! I didn't—Christine-No…Help…." The burning in his throat soon made it impossible to speak.

The man towered over Raoul as he collapsed gasping to the cold sidewalk, the concrete frigid beneath his cheek. And Raoul finally believed Christine in those moments. All along, she had known what they were up against. All along, she had been right. She had been sane.

And now he might never see her again. The thought brought a tear to his eye as he struggled to breathe…to live.

"Mr. Chagny, I am afraid tomorrow's plans have drastically changed." A pause. "But thank you for making tonight so much easier for me."


	21. Chapter 21

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It was dark when she awoke on the couch. The television provided soft white light. She checked the clock. 9:14 PM. The silly sitcom had become the somber evening news. Time to go to bed.

Where was Raoul? Asleep already? _You could have woken me up. _There were times when he was still too careful with her, acting as though she might break into pieces if he said the wrong thing.

With a stretch and groan, Christine got up and headed to their bedroom. The sheets and cover were still hastily made. Their suitcases sat untouched on the floor. She turned in a circle but didn't see any lights in the bathroom or closets. "Raoul!" she called, coming back into the living area. "Where are you?"

The heater turned on with a few clicks. She grabbed her phone off the coffee table and called him. It rang several times and then went to voice mail. Swallowing, she said, "Hey. It's me. This is so silly, but I don't know where you went. Call me. Please." Christine hung up, her hands dropping to her sides.

"Okay. Calm down. It's probably nothing." Panic rose in her throat as she thought back over her long nap. She'd hovered between sleep and consciousness, occasionally hearing the television. She vaguely recalled Raoul saying something to her. And then…she remembered a distant rumbling. Like thunder or an airplane.

But now that she thought about it, the sound had been more like a vibration in her mind. More like-

"Raoul! Raoul!"

She raced outside into the cold night, screaming his name at the top of her lungs. The car was still parked, confirming that something was very, very wrong. She ran around the entire apartment complex and down the street. Finally, she collapsed to her knees on the dry front lawn of someone's home. Her mind was quiet. And she was alone.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she dialed the number Erik had given her. Again, it was no longer in service. And though she couldn't even leave a message, Christine yelled into the receiver, "I hate you! I hate you! What have you done with them? Give them back! I hate…I can't…I can't do this anymore." She softly wept. "I can't do this."

As she walked back to Raoul's apartment, she felt like vomiting. She had no one now. And she didn't want anyone. No one else was going to be hurt or killed because of her. What had she been thinking getting Raoul involved in this terrible plan? She'd taped a target right on him.

Christine didn't sleep that night. In the living area, she sat by her phone and waited for a message or a call until daylight broke through the grey clouds. Sometimes she cried in utter frustration. Other times, she sat there and stared at the wall.

That's what Erik wanted, she supposed. Her completely stuck and helpless—with nothing to do but wait for him to make all the decisions. She clenched her fists. Yes, that's exactly what he thought she would do. He had her friend and supposed fiancé. What else would she do but be pathetically helpless?

At 5 AM, Christine walked into the kitchen. Last night's soup bowls still sat on the counter, the brown broth staining their edges. Raoul hadn't taken his keys or wallet. He usually did that when he went out for a run, saying they weighed him down and that he didn't want them to fall out of his pocket. Was that what happened? He'd wanted exercise. And then…. _No._

She grabbed both items for safekeeping, pushing away any thoughts that he might be dead. Grabbing her suitcase, she rolled it outside and lifted it into the trunk of the car. She locked Raoul's apartment after making sure all the appliances were turned off. Standing outside in the early morning hours, she raised her head high and exclaimed, "I'm leaving, Erik! I'm still going. Here I go. To Hawaii. Goodbye!"

She received no reply. But her head told her that Erik wasn't around anyway.

Then she started the ignition, backed out, and moved forward. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, so no one noticed when she turned right on red a little too quickly. Christine watched the sun continue to rise, making the town sparkle. Her hands were shaking on the wheel. But there was also an inner calmness, a need to do something—anything. To literally keep moving forward.

Would he try to stop her? She hoped so.

Dark green highway signs welcomed her to the airport, and she soon found a pay-by-the-day parking lot. A bright orange shuttle with a friendly driver quickly stopped for her and took her to the front curb. She tipped him well, grasping for good karma wherever she could find it. She checked in her single bag at the desk. Raoul had already bought their tickets. "My boyfriend is coming later," she explained, displaying her license. "He told me to go ahead and check in. I have his credit card if you need it. He'll be here soon." She managed to say it all without crying. They didn't question her. Bored TSA agents then ushered Christine through short lines. _Because I'm utterly harmless. No one would ever get hurt because of me._

Her flight didn't leave until the afternoon. What would she do when it was time to board? If she stayed, she'd be powerless. If she went, it might make Erik even angrier. Faced with these realizations, she purchased an overpriced vanilla latte at a coffee shop and headed for her gate. She sat down next to a couple speaking in a foreign language. All around her were groups of people, smiling and laughing and getting ready for the time of their lives. "Mommy, I want dolphins!" said a little boy.

"We'll see them soon," his mother replied, smoothing out his sandy blond hair.

Watching the children with their stuffed animals and coloring books, she thought back to her youth. It'd usually seemed happy until she'd gotten sick. Had she ever noticed that her father was so sad? Yes, she supposed she'd always sensed it. She'd mistaken his melancholy for abandonment and unrequited love, as opposed to watching his wife deteriorate.

_Maybe my mother was sane. Maybe it was the world that was crazy._

She bought a giant cinnamon roll and managed to eat half of it. Too sweet and sticky. Did anyone serve vegetables at an airport? Maybe that Chinese restaurant back there. Too far to walk now.

Mundane thoughts passed through her mind as though her brain still wanted to pretend that all was normal.

She was too tense to read a book or magazine. People watching was fun for a few hours. Getting no sleep the previous night had a mild effect. Sometimes her eyes would close for a few minutes, the sounds merging into a soft drone. Finally, her lids closed for a long time. She was awoken by-

"Now boarding rows one through twenty for Flight 219. Flight 219, rows one through twenty now boarding."

Christine sat up straight and glanced at her ticket. Row twenty-seven. She looked at all the people standing and stretching one last time. Elderly retirees on vacation dressed in colorful shirts and khakis. Young couples on their honeymoon. Families with smiling and crying and sleeping children.

Was she putting all of these people in danger by being on this flight?

She gripped her ticket, wrinkling it. And it was then that her phone rang. She stared at the blocked number as her stomach turned. Watch it be a stupid telemarketer.

She answered with a soft, unassuming, "Hello?"

The voice that replied brought simultaneous terror and relief. She'd accomplished exactly what she'd wanted. An ill half-smile formed on her face.

"Won't it be somewhat difficult to get married without a groom?" His voice was low and angry.

She took a deep breath. She'd had time to think over this conversation. And was calmly able to reply, "I thought I could use some time by myself. For some reason, these last few months have been really stressful."

"Rows one through forty now boarding. One through forty." The agent spoke over the intercom.

"If you step onto that plane, I will kill him," said Erik.

"So he's still alive?" she asked, not letting her relief betray her voice.

"For now."

She did want to bargain. But she didn't want to lose everything. Each word had to be carefully chosen. "I won't get on the plane if you let me see my friends."

"If you do as I say, the boy will be released in good time. But I will not allow you to marry him. Are you stupid? He could _never _make you happy! He knows nothing of music. Of anything really! Why would you agree to marry that idiot?"

She looked out the enormous window at the departing and arriving planes. The roars of their engines were audible and growing louder by the minute. "Maybe you're right, Erik. Maybe it was a bad decision. If you free my friends, we can talk about this. We need to talk very badly, don't we?" And that wasn't a lie. Now that she had faith in her sanity, there were many things she still wanted to know.

"If you do not board that plane, I will release Chagny. But you will never marry him. Do you understand, Christine? You cannot marry him. I will not allow it!"

She noticed something missing in this conversation. "What about Meg?"

Her question was followed by a disturbing long pause. "I require her for now."

"What? What did she do? How is any of this her fault? If I come back to you, there's no reason for you to keep her as some sort of—of hostage!"

"No." His voice softened and was sincere. "You misunderstand, my dear. It is not punishment. It is not to upset you that I have her. It is a necessity."

"Erik, you can't hurt her!" The other passengers glanced at Christine as they walked to the boarding line.

"She will survive. She will be fine." The tone of his voice wasn't reassuring. "I simply cannot give her back yet."

"Then I'm getting on the plane." She stood and picked up her purse, gripping onto the black strap for dear life.

"I will kill him if you do."

"Stop threatening me. And just tell me what you're doing with Meg."

"Please," he said. "You do not understand. I need her to have you. That is why I cannot give her back yet. I need her to have you! Simply stay, and you will see this."

"What do you mean by that?" Silence. "Erik." She gritted her teeth. "Where. Is. My. Friend?" She took several steps toward the line.

It sounded like he sighed in resignation. "I will show you. I will show you why all is different."

"When?"

"Now. Right now, Christine."

"You're going to make me miss my plane." She looked up nervously as the last rows were called.

"You will not."

Just then, a man in a black and silver uniform ran up to the redheaded lady at the airline desk. He said something to her. Christine could read her lips when she replied. "What? You're kidding? Crap." The woman rolled her eyes, shook her head, and went to the speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, we sincerely apologize, but there has been a sudden and unexpected technical issue. The departure is going to be delayed a while longer while we have a mechanic look into it. Thank you for your patience." The remaining people groaned. Some hesitated, probably wondering if they could avoid boarding the plane until it actually left.

"See? Now you will not miss it," said Erik. She shuddered. And Christine then realized that the sounds of the plane engines were something else altogether. No, she couldn't hear the airplanes outside. She could hear Erik—coming closer and closer.

Her heart pounded rapidly as the volume increased. "Where are you?" she whispered, looking around at the crowded terminal.

"Approaching security. Like a normal man. Like anyone else, you see?"

Christine quickly walked in that direction as the humming became a roar. Shoulders and arms brushed against her as a hundred different faces passed by. Where was he?

What she finally saw on the other side of the security barriers took her breath away. The Shadow itself was approaching! Its silhouette was less chaotic and had taken the shape of a human being. It had hands and arms and legs and a face. Yellow-orange glowing eyes. Sharp teeth. Christine put a hand over her mouth and choked, taking a step backwards. She grabbed a rectangular pillar to keep from fainting in terror. It was a monster out of fairy tales.

As the creature walked forward, Christine thought she saw a human being lost within the black shape. But the shadow was devouring it. Tears formed in her eyes. There was almost nothing of Erik left. Except his voice.

"Do you see me?" he asked through the phone.

"Yes," she sickly murmured. "Yes, I see you. Oh my God. What—What have you-?"

But then she noticed something very, very important.

No one else was staring at the Shadow Creature in horror. No one else looked twice. They ran and walked past it, hurrying to their flights. A couple embraced in front of it. A little boy even ran around its legs, giggling as his older sister chased after him. They were all oblivious.

"Why?" she whispered to herself, still gripping onto the cool plaster. "Why is it only me? Am I crazy, or am I right?"

"You can see me?" he asked, hopefully. "You recognize Erik, yes?"

Without answering, Christine pulled out her phone. Taking deep breaths, she found the camera setting. As the Shadow approached, she put her phone up and zoomed in on it. She took its picture and then looked down at the screen, quickly pulling up the new photo.

A strange feeling settled over her as she finally saw what everyone else saw. Just a tall, middle-aged, dark-haired man in a black suit. No horror. Yet when she looked up, the Shadow was still there, watching her.

"Do you take my picture because I am no longer hideous?" he softly asked. "Because Erik is a normal man, now?"

"Erik—" He thought she saw him as everyone else did. For now, it was safer if Erik believed that. If he thought she was terrified or crazy, the situation would spiral hopelessly downward. As it had last time. She needed him to trust her.

Christine began to approach the Shadow again. _Erik._ She had to think of _it_ as Erik. Maybe he was still in there somewhere. Fear gripped her as she finally walked to the other side of security and faced the vibrating black shape. "Erik," she whispered. "What have you done?" She left the question ambiguous. Any type of explanation would have been appreciated.

"For you," he said, crouching slightly. "Erik did it for you." If she concentrated, she could still see glimpses of the human being inside the darkness.

"What did you do for me?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Isn't that rather obvious? I made myself better. I am no longer hideous."

"How?"

"A complex plastic surgery."

_Liar. _They started to walk forward.

"I still have luggage on the—"

"You will not now. They will send it to you. Let us leave this crowded hellhole. I am not so accustomed to this many people. It is odd. But I had to show you. So you would stay, Christine. So you would stay with Erik."

She shakily nodded and fell into step beside him. The entire experience was bizarre, and Christine felt like she was the only one waltzing through a different dimension. And yet, oddly, she also knew that she wasn't crazy. This was not a sickness. This was a terrible and strange gift.

They walked to a shiny black car that was pulled up the curb where the shuttles turned. She stared at where he had parked and said, "You're lucky you didn't get a ticket."

He laughed with delight at this. "A ticket? Yes, I suppose I am." She climbed inside the cool leather interior. And the Shadow Creature sat down in the driver's seat and started the engine. She tried not to stare at _it_—a black ghost driving a vehicle. Erik's voice was still his. His affection for her was still there. She focused on that instead. "You see," he began. "Now that I am no longer disgusting, the boy can give you nothing more. I can give you a handsome face. And music. I can give you the daytime. Sunlight. Picnics. Wherever you want. A house. I can give you whatever you want, Christine!"

"Yes, Erik. You can. It's going to be okay." She looked out the window at the passing grey and brown concrete buildings. Planes took off above them. She was going to miss her flight. That was probably for the best. "Where are we going?"

A hesitation. "I am going to take you to a very nice hotel. You will stay there for a few days, and I will visit often. And then, after that, I will come to you. We can forget all the horror of these months. We can start anew."

"Where will you be while I'm at the hotel?"

"I must finish something. An important project. I cannot have you yet. Not completely."

Away from the crowds and noises of the airport, she was barely able to hear another voice whisper, _"Yes, she will simply get in the way. She will not understand. Keep her away!"_

Erik didn't respond to the other voice. For now, neither did she.

She told herself to keep calm. To pretend everything was normal.

"Where are my friends?" she softly asked.

"As I said, I will release him soon enough."

"Erik." She reached out, not knowing how this would feel. Clenching her jaw, she placed her hand on the arm of the Shadow. Soft, cold cotton met her hand, along with what felt like a human arm. Only her vision and hearing were different. Erik felt real at least. The face of the creature was too blurred for her to see his reaction. "I understand that you're holding Raoul because you think we're going to get married. The truth is…the truth is that I made up the engagement to draw you out. But—"

"You are lying," he harshly interrupted her. "You were going to marry him! Because he is handsome! But-"

"No. No, Erik. I wasn't going to marry him. But it doesn't matter. I still understand why you have Raoul. And I believe you when you say that you're not going to hurt him. Because you know how sad that would make me." She took a deep breath. "But I still don't understand why you have Meg. You're being very vague about why you have her. And I'd like to see her right now."

"I cannot." Hands gripped the wheel. "Do not ask me. You can see her later."

"Why?"

"I cannot."

"If you just show me that she's okay—let me see her. And let Raoul go. Then you and I will go somewhere and talk about all this. We'll go to Hawaii. I'm all packed. We'll go together." Her voice shook. Not because she was lying—but because she was telling the truth. She was ready to find answers.

"I cannot!" he yelled. "Do not ask that of me. I must finish what I began. And then we will go and do as you say. Because then it will be fine. Then I will be whole. I will look like a man for you. Christine—" Both a shadow and a hand reached out to touch her face. "I did this for you."

She turned away and started to weep.

"Why? Why are you crying? Look what Erik did for you!"

"Because I think you're hurting my best friend. I've known Meg a long time. She helped me through high school when I was kind of a mess. She was there for me when my father died. She knows me even better than Raoul. And I…I think you're hurting her!"

"But look at my face," he said. Suddenly, he pulled to the side of the road with a jerk of the steering wheel. He roughly stopped the car, throwing her forward. Startled, Christine leaned back as the Shadow hovered over her, begging with Erik's voice. "Look at Erik. Please. Please. Please. Look at Erik now!" Again and again, the hands gestured to the face. "Look at what Erik has done for you!"

Why did Erik start talking about his face whenever Meg was mentioned? What did one have to do with the other? That was the key to all this.

"Look at Erik! Please look at Erik!"

She could hear human pain in that voice. Even as the Shadow practically devoured him, she could feel Erik's hurt. "I see you, Erik," she said, taking a deep breath and finding his cold hand. She remembered the photo. "You look very handsome. You do. I see what you did for me."

"Now you will stay?" he asked. "Now you will stay with me?"

"I'll stay with you if you just show me Meg. Let me see her. Please."

"_Do not!"_ the other evil voice snapped.

She subtly glared at _it _and continued to fight. "Please let me see my best friend. I have to know she's okay."

The glowing eyes stared forward. The shoulders moved up and down with deep breaths. "Will you have dinner with me first?" he softly asked. "I want to do that with you. To show you how normal our lives can be. Will you?"

She was about to protest but then tiredly nodded. "All right. Yes. Let's eat together. And then Meg."

"Yes. Yes, we will do that."

He started the car and turned back onto the road. They drove to an older district in the city. It had novelty shops, fancier restaurants, bakeries, and a few high-end fashion stores. She let him lead her inside the dark interior of a seafood restaurant. Her jeans and blue sweater seemed out of place among suits and evening gowns, but no one threw her out. Lobsters sat in a giant tank, and flowers had been placed on every white tablecloth. Crystal light fixtures sparkled on the ceilings. They ordered champagne. She let Erik order everything. She let him play this game.

"I have greatly missed you." Eyes stared at her from across the table, partly yellow and partly orange—a mix of the two beings in one body. "I have thought of you every day."

She looked down at her freshly baked slice of wheat bread. "I've missed…what we had last year," she replied. "The music."

"No. You couldn't miss that. I was so hideous, Christine. I hated you even having to see me."

"You were ill," she gently corrected. "I still looked forward to my time with you. I loved the lessons. I loved talking to you at the library."

"But you would not have wanted me. The night of your recital. I saw you with that boy. You were with him afterwards. You kissed him. You did not want me. And all you have done since then is try to escape."

She remembered that night, feeling Erik's anger and not understanding why he was so upset. "Raoul and I had been dating for quite a while." She paused. "I didn't know seeing us would hurt you so much." _Would make you kill three people. _"It wasn't intentional. You can't blame me for not understanding that."

His shoulders slumped. "No. No, that was not your fault. You would not have known, I suppose. But I—I needed to fix it. I had to fix it. So you would not keep running from me."

"What do you mean by fix it?"

"Nothing. Enjoy your dinner. We will have many more dinners. I want you to enjoy this one."

To please him, she ate some of her steak, lobster, and Portobello mushrooms. She drank her sparkling wine. Whenever she needed a reminder about how Erik looked to the rest of the world, she discreetly looked at that picture. And maybe she would have been able to play a little longer if the thing hadn't spoken up again.

"_It is time to return to Megan. This is needless delay. Lock Christine away. And return to Megan. Or I will melt your face into nothing. Do you understand me, Erik? Into nothing!"_

Her friend was in very real danger. Christine's heart sank into her stomach.

"Listen to me," she said, setting her fork down with a loud clink. "If you hurt Meg, I won't be able to forgive you. Even if you're the most handsome man in the entire world. I don't care! I won't forgive you for hurting my friend. But if you don't hurt her, I'll give you what you want."

"I want you to love me!" he snapped.

"Well, I will never love you if you hurt my friends."

And the thing said,_ "Do not listen to her! She knows nothing! She is useless!"_

"Stop!" Erik roared. And she knew he wasn't only speaking to her. For a moment, Christine could clearly see human hands fold around human temples as Erik struggled with whatever this was. Something ghastly and cruel.

Standing, she ignored the horror of what hovered around him. She walked to where he sat. She leaned through the cloak of shadows and kissed a soft human cheek. A cold wind slammed her face, but she ignored it. Erik's glass tipped over all by itself, and she ignored that, too. She heard him softly gasp as her lips touched his flesh. "Please, Erik," she whispered.

"Oh, Christine." He was shaking. She felt him nod. And she felt the other thing get very angry. The wine glass rolled off the table and shattered despite the carpet. A waiter rushed over to clean up the mess.

"I will take you to Megan," Erik murmured. "And you will…you will see that she is perhaps fine. She is unharmed. You will see this. And then you will be happy. I will keep my face, and you will stay. You even kiss me with this face, see? You did, Christine. You kissed me. So I will show you your friend, and all will be fine."

Relief washed over her. She kissed his cheek again, more able to see the human being in the shadows. And now that she knew she was sane…now that she knew Erik and the Shadow couldn't be the same entity…now that it all began to make sense…Christine started to feel for him. "Thank you," she said. "That means the world to me."

* * *

><p>He had a dying need to keep her happy. It overpowered everything, this desire. The need even overpowered the thing at times.<p>

He made her finish several bites of moist chocolate cake. Christine must enjoy her dessert before they left. She must be happy with him.

The thing raged at him. _"You are ruining everything! Keep her out of this!"_

He silently told _it _that the ritual would still happen. Christine would see that nothing was wrong with her friend. She would be pacified when she was certain that Megan was physically unharmed. Then he would take Christine to a beautiful hotel suite. And he would return to the cabin so that the ceremony could go forward. And all would proceed as planned.

The thing didn't trust him. He felt a twitching in his face, a clear threat to destroy him.

"Let us go now," he said, touching his nose to make sure it was there. "Let us go, my love."

She eagerly nodded. He disliked how she still looked at him. From the moment Christine had seen him again at the airport, there'd been clear fear in her eyes. Her gaze darted back and forth. She was easily startled. Perhaps she could not get his previous hideous self out of her mind. It would take time. Yes, simply time for her to love him.

Her kisses lingered on his cheek. How could he deny her requests when she kissed him? She was such a good, sweet girl. His life would be heaven with her in it…the past erased…the thing finally satisfied. His heart ached with love for her. Even after her betrayal, he couldn't help but love her.

_It _continued to threaten his face throughout the entire drive. His flesh twitched and tingled. He put a hand over his mouth and nose in case anything happened to them. He would not be hideous to her again.

"What's wrong?" she asked, perhaps noticing his movements.

"Nothing!" he snapped. She flinched and looked out the window.

He felt terrible.

The thing raged at him. _"I will extinguish you if you ruin this, Erik!"_

He shivered, fully believing it.

Christine turned to him at that moment, touched his hand, and said, "Thank you for doing this. It makes me really happy."

He moaned in soft horror. They were nearing the woods, the road a short distance from the cabin. He wondered if he should have blindfolded her during the journey. It was too late now.

It was too late. Like in an old cartoon with the angel and the devil perched on the human's shoulders—the thing would say something to him. And then Christine would speak. Their voices fought within his head.

"Thank you, Erik."

"_You are a fool!"_

"I know we'll be okay tonight. I know we'll figure this out together."

"_She'll destroy everything! And then I will destroy you!"_

Both voices tortured him—one with evil and one with love. Because there was no path that was right. He sunk down into the seat as the tall trees hovered over them. Occasionally, the thing would cause the car to swerve, but he clung to the wheel. He stopped atop a patch of soft pine needles. She blinked and looked at their surroundings, her face losing some of its pretty color.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Outside of the city," he replied. "I required solitude for my project."

Grey birds squawked and tweeted above them. Occasionally, she stepped on a fallen branch. Otherwise it was silent. First, he warily led her to Chagny to reassure her of his wellbeing. The boy was sedated in a small shed outside the cabin. The thing had urged him to kill Chagny the previous night, to literally strangle the life out of the idiot. But his deteriorating mind had known that Christine would not love Erik if the boy died. So the boy simply went away for a bit. She would not marry him.

He opened the squeaking metal door. The interior smelled of damp wood and vegetation. The boy was sprawled out on a dirty white mattress beside a green watering can and old tool chest. A few spiders in corner cobwebs were Chagny's only company.

She released a soft gasp and ran over to him. He glared as Christine touched Chagny's perfect cheek. "He's just asleep," she whispered.

"Yes." His jaw clenched, and he desperately wished that the boy would disappear off the face of the earth.

"His neck is bruised." Christine momentarily stared at Chagny's rising and falling chest. "You'll let him go soon?"

"Assuming you do not attempt to wed the idiot, yes, he will be released eventually."

She nodded and rubbed her arm. She took a deep breath. Slowly, she stood and said, "Please show me Meg now."

Her reaction to Chagny gave him hope. She understood. She did not cry or beg or try to run away. Christine would not hate him now because she understood. Just a little more time, and all would be perfect. They would have a house and take Sunday walks and dine together. Husband and wife.

He slowly stepped into the cabin first. Megan was sitting in her crimson armchair. A few lingering rays of light touched her cheek. She was pale, quiet, and staring blankly at the wall. But, otherwise, there was nothing wrong with her. She was physically fine. Christine would see this.

"See?" he said, ushering his beloved into the cabin. "There is your friend. Megan is well. She will be fine. Do you see?"

Christine stepped into the dim room. She blinked twice. Then she looked at Megan for several eerie seconds. Her eyes grew wider and wider.

Christine screamed.

He flinched at the horrible sound. The thing roared in anger.

"What did you do to her?!" Christine shouted, choking on her voice and tears. "Oh, God! What did you do?" She was crying and gasping. "Look at her. She's covered in it! What did you do?" Christine ran to her friend and began to pull on Megan's right arm, trying to force her up. "You have to go! You have to run! Meg, get up! You have to go!"

"_Look what you've done!"_ the thing raged. _"Look at the mess you've made, Erik!"_

He clutched his head as it all began to unwind. _But why, Christine? Why didn't she understand?_

Megan slightly turned her head. "Christine?" she whispered.

"Yes, it's me," Christine said, continuing to sob. "We have to get you out of here!"

"But we can't go yet," Megan replied, drawing back. "The Master isn't finished."

"No, Megan." He quickly intervened. "It is just…Christine came to make sure you are well. Tell her you are well. Megan, tell her you are well. Tell her that you are fine."

"I'm well," Megan murmured. She smiled widely. "I'm going to be a beautiful dancer!"

"No, you're not!" Christine shouted. She turned back to him, her face twisted in anger. "Erik, let her go! What have you done? What is it? What are you?"

"She is fine!" he roared. "Look at her! She is fine!"

The thing raged at him to get Christine out of there. He was nearly ready to comply with _it._

"Let her go!" Christine shouted, her fists clenched. "What have you done to her?"

"Nothing! She is fine!"

"No, she's not! She's like you now!"

"I need her! To be a man. Erik needs her to be a man." His head spun. The world started to fade.

"What?" Christine whispered. "What do you mean you need her? What are you talking about?"

"I need her to look like this. To look like a man for you. I need Megan."

"Erik—"

"_Get her out of here! Now!" _the thing screeched.

"I need her!" he roared at both of them, losing his mind. "I need her! I need her! I need her to be a man!"

"You're not a man!" Christine suddenly hollered, approaching him. "You're covered in it—in that Shadow thing! You are the Shadow thing now! You looked like more of man when I first met you. You looked more human then! And you didn't hurt people! You were my friend! And Meg is the same way! She's covered in it! What did you do to her? What did you do to yourself?!"

"_Get her out of here!"_

"I'm not getting out of here!" Christine screamed back at _it._ "Not until you give my friend back!"

She screamed back at…_it._

She screamed at _it._

The fact hit him slowly and painfully. And then her words hit him, equally horrible. He shakily started to sink to his knees. Something within him collapsed. "You—you can hear it?" he whispered in a choked voice. "You can see it?"

Her face was red and tear-streaked. She hugged her arms to her chest. With a shudder, she whispered, "Yes. Yes, I think I can."

"For how long? How long have you seen it?"

She slowly approached him. "I could sense it from the beginning, I think. And then it got worse when you came back at the holidays. And now it's everywhere. Eating you. And it's on Meg." She shook her head and half-laughed, half-sobbed. "I thought I was crazy for so long. Everyone thought I was sick. But I'm not, am I? It's real, isn't it? What is it?"

"And I look like it?" He could not escape that one point. He could not grasp any other thought except—"I look like the monster to you?"

"Yes, you look—or _it_ looks like a shadow with eyes and sharp teeth. It's like you're the same thing now. But it wasn't always that way. I don't understand—"

He leaned away from her as pure devastation overcame him. He covered his face and turned away. "So I will always look like a monster to you? There is no escaping it."

"No. You don't understand. If you would just tell me what it is, we could-" He heard her continue to speak to him…to offer words of reassurance…but he didn't want to listen. She reached out, but he continued to draw back into himself. He wanted to get away from her.

"I will always be a monster to you. You can see it. You can actually see it. The monster. Erik the monster."

The thing quieted as _it_ realized just how victorious _it_ would soon be.

He didn't want to exist any longer. He didn't want to feel this agony. A knowledge that nothing he did would work, would be good enough. She would never love him. Christine would never want him.

"Erik!" he heard her distantly shout. "What are you doing? You're almost completely gone! Erik, come back!"

To escape the pain, he let the thing have him. He let _it_ win. He didn't want to be alive. He didn't want to be hideous, monstrous Erik.

"Erik!" Christine screamed. "Erik!"

_It_ laughed at her with his hollowed voice.

He faded away.


	22. Chapter 22

Here we go. The next chapter will have an author's note that'll give everyone a better grasp of where we are in the story. But I don't want to give too much away until then.

Thanks so much! I'm glad everyone was excited about the last chapter!

**Read and Review!**

The Shadow spread over the rest of Erik like oil, filling in what little remained of the human being. Even after he was gone, she still screamed his name several more times. Whatever was left of the humanity in those glowing eyes faded away. The air in the room was frigid despite the small fire in the hearth. She could see her breath and feel the chill creep over her skin.

Christine took several steps backward and ran into a hard and uneven wooden wall. Her eyes trailed over the creature. _It_ seemed to shift and stretch as though adjusting to its new state.

With a cry, Christine made one last desperate attempt to escape. She ran toward Meg, reaching toward her friend with outstretched hands. "Run!" she screamed. "Run, Meg!"

But Meg made no attempt to move, only glancing up and blinking. With horror, Christine realized that her feet were no longer touching the ground. Her legs were running back and forth in the air, and she was going nowhere. She flailed her arms, her chest constricting in terror. Again, she yelled, "Erik! Erik! Stop!"

She was gently set back down in the place she'd been before, directly in front of the Shadow. It stared down at her like a spider in a web. She could barely speak. "What are—Who-? No-"

"But I am Erik!" _it_ exclaimed. "And I love you, my dear. Come over here to me." The voice was now different. A bit more high-pitched and sometimes combined with either a deeper echo or a raspy whisper—like two or three voices in one. Unlike Erik's voice, nothing about the sound was beautiful.

"You're not Erik," she shakily replied, again backing up. "There's none of Erik left in you."

_It _hesitated, as though wondering if there was any way to continue the game, and then said, "No? I hope not. Trying to get him to do anything in his best interest is like ripping off fingernails, isn't it?" The creature stepped toward her. She could go nowhere. "Now. What exactly are you?" _it_ asked. "Your accurate observations about me are curious."

A sickened chuckle escaped her lips. "You're asking what _I_ am? What are you?"

"M. You are nothing but a girl with a sixth sense, aren't you? You are not the first to try and destroy my plans. You will fail."

"Did you kill Erik?" she whispered, searching for him in the black void. She saw nothing.

"I cannot kill Erik. I can only facilitate a gentle suicide."

"Are you the-the Devil?" she pressed, trying to find some tangible way to describe what she was experiencing. Maybe she needed a cross or holy water. Her scrambled mind searched every fairy tale, religious story, and horror movie for an answer.

Her question brought the creepiest laughter she'd ever heard. "It has been many, many years since I was asked that question. Modern life makes people less endearing, doesn't it? Thank you for that, Christine."

"_Are_ you?"

"If I were the Devil, I would want your soul or some nonsense like that, wouldn't I? And I do not care about you. Or anyone else. Except Megan. I need Megan. I tried to explain that to Erik….He is unnecessary now anyway. The transition was inevitable."

She had a hundred thousand questions. Sensing her time was short, Christine was forced to choose the most important ones. "Why do you want Meg?" she whispered. "What does she have to do with anything?"

"Why do humans have children?"

"What?"

"It is the answer to your question. Why do humans have offspring?"

She swallowed and hoarsely replied, "To love and care for someone. To—"

"_Wrong._ Let's simplify this for you. Why do dogs and elephants and- and insects reproduce themselves?"

"I—I don't know. Nature? I mean-"

"Exactly." It grinned at her, displaying a row of knife-like white teeth. "Nature! And I wish to have the same natural advantage. Even less than that—only an occasional heir to myself. That is fair, right?"

"But you're hurting her!" Christine exclaimed. "You're making her like you! You're destroying her!"

"Oh. Not necessarily. She can choose to recover when it is all over. She does not have to be like poor, stupid Angela—who thought she could escape our little arrangement." The creature tsked.

"Angela?" Christine shook her head. Too many questions and not enough time. "Please let her go! Please! She hasn't done anything!"

"No." The apathy in the creature's eyes and voice made her guess that reasoning with this-this thing was impossible. _It _wasn't human—more like a predator or a parasite, incapable of empathy.

And so she knew her next pleas would be futile. "Please let me go then! Please let all of us g-go…." Her voice started to break down with hopelessness.

The creature tilted its head. "I cannot do that. I don't need a hundred of your authorities ruining my ceremony. It is far too sensitive for disruption."

As the Shadow came to within a foot of her, she pressed her back even harder against the wall. And she released more cries of, "Erik! Erik! Erik, come back!" Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Erik! Erik!"

"Hush!" _it_ snapped. "You will upset Megan."

"Please," she whimpered.

"Now, little girl. I would like nothing more than to kill you immediately. I dislike that you can see me in my true form. But—taking your life may not yet be in my best interest. So you will have to simply stay still for a while."

Before she could wrap her brain around the creature's words, Christine felt her entire body freeze. She couldn't move. She collapsed to the hard ground, immobilized as a sharp pain shot through her hip and leg on impact. Involuntarily, she rolled over onto her back. Every part of her body was frozen except for her face. She panted and panicked. "Help! Help! I can't—"

"Hush now." Without touching her, the creature dragged Christine along the floor and into the kitchen area. A chipped wooden wall now obstructed her view of Meg and the living room.

Her mouth was frozen with her lips slightly parted. Her voice was gone. In terror, she started to inwardly convulse as the room spun above her, her heart hammering.

"Calm down," _it_ said, hovering over her. "Breathe. You can still breathe."

Near to blacking out, she quickly did so, inhaling through her nose and slightly open mouth. Her body relaxed somewhat as she exhaled. She went limp and stared upward. Tears fell down her cheeks, the only way she had of expressing herself.

"There you go," _it_ said. "Sleep, if you would like. Relax. There is nothing you can do now."

They were interrupted by the sound of Meg crying. The Shadow Creature glanced up and then quickly left Christine alone. She could literally do nothing but listen and stare at the logs that made up the ceiling.

"Christine said I wouldn't be a dancer!" Meg said through her tears. "Where is she? She was here. I know she was here."

"Pay no attention to Christine, Megan," the thing replied. "She is simply jealous of your success. It is natural to outgrow your friends on the path to greatness, yes?"

Meg sniffled. "Did she leave?"

"I think she is taking a nice nap. She wore herself out with her silly jealousy. But we'll forget her for now. There is so much to be done before the event. Two more days, Megan. The day after tomorrow. Aren't you excited?"

"And then I'll be famous?"

"Yes, my darling."

"O-okay."

Meg's voice was distant. She had to be half-hypnotized.

Hours and hours of near silence followed their conversation. Christine heard the creature release a sigh of contentment. Pages of a book turned. The door squeaked open and then closed, and she guessed _it_ had stepped outside. She panicked again at the bleakness and horror of her situation, screaming for Erik in her mind.

They were all doomed. She was going to die. Meg was going to go through something beyond awful.

Erik had been the humanity in that terrible thing. Now he was gone. Because of her. Christine felt momentarily furious with herself. Maybe if she hadn't flipped out upon first seeing Meg and handled this whole situation better - maybe Erik would still be here. Maybe she could have reasoned with him.

Handled living shadow creatures and birthing rituals? How was she supposed to accept any of this?

Yet this was real. There was no denying that now. Even if she miraculously survived, her life would never be the same.

As her panic turned to quiet despair, she spoke to other people in her mind. She again asked Erik to come back. She talked to her father. And to God. Anyone who could help them, living or dead or somewhere in between.

She closed her eyes at times but never knew if she slept. Her inability to move threw off her senses. She had some idea of the time by the lengthening shadows, the darkness, and then the light of a new day creeping through a yellowed curtain. Her mouth was unbearably dry by morning. Christine wondered if she'd simply die of dehydration.

But, suddenly, the Shadow was standing over her, blocking out all light. She stared up in terror, wondering if the creature had decided to kill her after all. But then she could move. Feeling returned to her limbs and face. Christine gasped and cried out, quickly curling into a protective ball.

_It_ gestured to a glass of water and plate of square crackers beside her on the floor. "Eat, drink, and attend to anything else. You have fifteen minutes." She opened her mouth to yell. "No, Christine. No more conversations. You will upset Megan with your nonsense. Now tend to your needs, or I will tend to them for you."

The threat worked. Trembling, she drank the cold water and ate the crackers. Prisoner food. Her three minutes alone came in the tiny bathroom with rusted metal facilities. Her hands shook as she washed them in a sink that resembled a silver bucket. Why was _it_ actively keeping her alive?

Fear was making it difficult to think, but she tried to find an answer to this question. Why did the thing want to make sure she didn't die? Was _it_ sadistically keeping her alive to torment her? She didn't think so. The creature seemed too practical for that. _It_ had a reason.

There was no way to escape the bathroom, not even a tiny window. She opened the door and stared at _it_, glaring. She'd become accustomed to the thing's monstrous appearance.

Barely looking at her, the Shadow said, "You may want to lie down unless you enjoy falling."

She started to crouch toward the floor, and_ it_ quickly paralyzed her again. She lay there the entire morning, memorizing the grooves in walls. Her moments of anger and terror came whenever she heard the thing dote on Meg, manipulating and lying to her. And Christine felt so completely helpless.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, the thing stepped outside. What was it doing? Taking a walk? Having a meal? Smoking a cigarette? Did _it _do activities like that?

Tomorrow night was the end of all this. Panic welled up inside her again. What was she going to do? She couldn't even move! She was going to die! _No, no, no. Oh, God._

_Calm down, Christine. Concentrate. Calm down._

_Five positive things._

_One. I have musical talent._

_Two. There are people that love me._

_Three. I am not crazy. I have something that no one else has. But I am not crazy._

_Four. I care about people. I'm not unfeeling like that stupid, evil thing._

_And five. Five. Five. Five-I won't give up._

In and out, she breathed deeply. She focused on those five positives in her life. She thought of her father. Meg. Raoul. She thought of her best times with Erik.

Christine noticed a lessening of the tension in her body, a loosening of the thing's grip on her.

Suddenly, she wiggled her fingers. And then her toes. She still couldn't move her limbs, but this was progress. "Help me," she whispered. Her voice was back! Oh, but what good would it all do? Still, she kept working at her arms and legs for the next hour. She turned her head back and forth. Until the humming in her mind returned, and she knew that the awful creature was coming back. She then quickly stilled and pretended to be paralyzed, praying that the Shadow couldn't sense the difference.

_It _didn't. The thing ignored her the rest of the day. In the evening, the creature only spoke to Meg.

"We are going out to celebrate again, my darling. Tomorrow night is our time! The ritual will be complete, my little love!"

"Yes, Erik," Meg replied, reminding Christine that only she could see the thing for what _it_ really was. "Let's celebrate together!" A pause. "Your nose is different. Nicer. Did you get surgery?" The thing only laughed jubilantly at this question.

Christine realized with sadness that Erik had probably been trading his soul for his face the entire time. Until there was a handsome visage but no humanity remaining. How had he gotten himself into such an arrangement?

She was startled from her thoughts by the creak of wood as Meg and the creature walked about the cabin. The door opened and closed as they left together, and Christine remained in the growing darkness. For the next hour, she worked on moving her body, trying to roll onto her stomach and push herself up. "Come on," she whispered to herself. "You can do this." Finally, she managed to pull herself up to her hands and knees.

But now what? Did she try to get up and run? Christine closed her eyes and sickly swallowed. If the thing discovered she was gone, _it _would either chase after her or disappear with Meg.

She froze when she heard someone distantly cough, terrified they had returned. But there was no humming in her head.

The person, a male, coughed again. She recognized that cough….

Christine gasped. "Raoul! Raoul! Can you hear me?" She put all her energy into her voice as she unsteadily crawled to the nearest window. "Raoul! Can you hear me?!"

"Christine? I hear you!" His voice was muffled. "Where the heck are you?"

"In the cabin. Be careful!" She closed her eyes and listened. The creature was gone. "I'm in the cabin. Do you see it?"

"Yeah. It's right in front of me. Are you hurt?"

"N-no. But I can't move very much. Um." She tried to stay calm. "Try the front door."

She heard it creak and groan as he pulled on the metal handle. "It won't open!"

"Okay. That's okay. It's probably not safe anyway. Come back to the side window. I can hear you well enough." She bent her neck and could barely make out his face in the dusty glass. "How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"Off and on today," he replied. "I was too out of it to move for a while. I think I was drugged or something. But when saw the car was gone, I made myself get up. I was going to get the hell out of here. But now you're here! Erik! That son of a—"

"Listen to me. Erik's gone. And that—that person is not human."

"I don't care what it is! I should get us out of here while it's gone. Let me break a window and—"

"No! No, listen. If we leave, it'll know we're going to get help. We're miles away from other people. And do you think they'd even believe all this? No. It'll take Meg. And we'll never find her!"

"What's it going to do to her?"

There was a sick feeling in her stomach as she replied, "Maybe…maybe procreate with her."

"_What?"_

"I don't know the details. But it's going to destroy her. She's already really far gone."

"What can I do? Find a weapon or something?"

"You can't fight it. You can't hurt it. I'm not sure anyone can."

"Then what do I do?" he desperately asked.

She took a deep breath. "Pretend like you're still asleep. If _it_ leaves Meg here and goes out again, then that will be our chance. We'll grab her and run." _And run forever._

"What if it doesn't go back out?"

_Then we're doomed._ She forced the thought away and said, "Tomorrow night is the ritual. We have until then. The thing is so focused on this weird ceremony that maybe there will be a time when it's really distracted. You could grab Meg and run."

He was quiet for a moment. "Christine. This doesn't sound like much of a plan, baby. Maybe we should just…go right now and try to find help. This might be our only chance to get out alive."

"Oh, Raoul," she whispered. "I won't ask you to stay here and die for my-my mistakes. But I have to try to save her. I understand if you have to go. Maybe you can save your life. Maybe you'll find a miracle."

"Jesus. No. I'm not leaving without you guys. I- I'll try to think of something tonight."

She weakly smiled. "Our best weapon is that _it_ doesn't know you're awake and that I can move—kind of."

"What did he-_it_ do to you?"

"Paralyzed me. Some kind of magic."

"My God. What the hell is it?"

"I don't know."

They were both silent for a moment. "I'm sorry for not believing you," he said, his voice choked.

"Don't worry about it," she replied, squeezing her eyes shut. "I didn't even believe myself most of the time. Whatever happens, thank you." A soft and distant humming began in her mind. "Go back now, Raoul. It's coming back! Pretend to be asleep!"

"All right. Be careful! Scream if you need me."

When she saw headlights in the windows, she immediately crawled back to the same spot and froze. She hoped she was a good actress.

The door opened and closed. Creaky footsteps followed. "I'm cold," Meg said.

"We will warm you up by the fire," _it_ replied.

That was the extent of their conversation. The thing remained in the cabin until morning, and Christine was left either dozing for short periods or trying to come up with ideas for escape. She'd thought briefly of her phone, but both it and her purse were gone. They were utterly cut off from the rest of the world in more than one way. The thing unfroze her to allow her to drink a glass of water. _It _didn't bother with food this time. When _it_ re-paralyzed her, Christine was terrified that movement would again be impossible. Fortunately, that wasn't the case. Her brain and body had begun to build up a shield or a tolerance. She bent her fingers and toes within an hour or so. She found her voice soon after that.

The thing ignored her.

The thing didn't care about her, and _it_ had practically forgotten about Raoul.

On the one hand, this was bad because _it_ had no real qualms with killing either of them. The creature completely lacked empathy.

On the other hand, the thing's single-mindedness was also its main weakness. _It_ focused on Meg and the ritual, paying little attention to anything else.

To her dismay and probably Raoul's, the creature didn't leave Meg alone over the next twenty-four hours. In fact, the creature doted upon Meg. Feeding her. Telling her how beautiful she would be. Christine even thought she heard them dance together around the cabin. She shuddered and hoped Meg would be able to recover from all this. If they made it out alive.

_I very well might die tonight. _The thought made her momentarily sick. But she couldn't dwell on that right now.

Candles were lit; she saw their shadows flickering softly on the wall. Pages of a book were turned. A strange smoky smell engulfed the cabin. Christine tried not to cough and draw attention to herself. Her stomach tightened with fearful anticipation.

And then she heard words that made her blood run cold-

"I need you to undress now, Megan."

"Why?" Meg asked.

"You must be completely vulnerable for the Master, my little love. It is the only way."

Christine sickly squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the rustle of fabric as Meg began to obey.

No time was left for delay. Slowly, she crawled forward on her hands and knees out of the kitchen area. The lights shifted and flickered, making her dizzy and nauseous. The smell filled the rooms, sickly sweet. Christine cautiously raised her head to see the ritual. Meg was standing there with only a white blanket around her shoulders, bare beneath it. The Shadow Creature hovered above her holding a red book. To Christine's relief, _it_ wasn't harming her. _Yet._ Or maybe the act wouldn't even be physical. A wind was running through the room, sometimes frigid and sometimes too hot. The flames in the fire danced.

"Tonight, we come here together, Megan Giry. To seal our bargain. Never to be broken—"

As the thing focused on reading with its back toward her, Christine crawled along the wooden floor, her knees aching. She glanced toward the windows but didn't see Raoul.

The thing's voice echoed through the cabin. "For you—beauty, fame, and admiration. For me—the first born male…."

Hidden behind an old table, Christine crawled to the door and quickly unlocked it for Raoul. She knew he could have decided to run. She wouldn't have blamed him.

Then she searched for a target. Something that would stop this whole thing, if only for a few minutes. Anything that could help them.

"Megan, do you accept the Master into yourself. Into your blood. Until the birth of the first male heir, when the Master may claim the child. To use as a trained and devoted servant for a natural lifetime of eighty years."

The book shuddered in the Shadow's hands. The pages glimmered. Should she try to grab that?

She hopped up quietly. It was hard to stop from falling over on her half-numb legs, but she managed to keep her balance. Christine stumbled past the old, dusty furniture. As the thing continued to read, she dove for the book and grabbed the spine, preparing to hurl it into the fireplace. The thing cried out in rage, a siren's wail.

Her feet were knocked out from beneath her, and she fell to the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of her. Pain shot through her body. The book fell from her outstretched hands, inches from the flickering hearth. Her head spun. Meg sobbed.

The thing held her there, hovering over her. "You," _it_ growled. "So you have even more going for you. You can repel me."

She raised her throbbing head. Behind them, she saw Raoul slowly entering through the front door, attempting to be quiet despite the rusty hinges. He stared at the scene with wide-eyed horror.

She started to speak, keeping her voice loud. "What are you?! You—are you a demon? An alien? An animal? What are you? Where did you come from?" She had to keep going to distract the creature. "You're right. I am special. I'm not human! I'm an-an angel! Yes, that's why I can do all this. I'm an angel sent to fight you."

_It_ laughed. "You are a silly human girl with a strange sixth sense. You are nothing. And I am becoming tired of you."

"What are you?!" she practically screamed.

_It_ leaned over. Softly and coldly, the creature asked, "What makes you think that I know my origins any better than you know yours? Perhaps I came to be here like every other living thing. Perhaps it is my right to exist!"

Raoul started to grab Meg, wrapping a hand around her mouth so she wouldn't scream. His other arm folded around Meg's waist as her eyes widened in surprise. He drew back with her but wasn't even close to fast enough. The thing whirled around to see him.

"No!" she cried out. Raoul hurled a hammer at the creature. The heavy tool was instantly diverted to the side of the room, landing on the wooden floor with a loud crash. An invisible force threw Raoul far away from Meg. His head hit the back wall with a thud. He moaned as he slumped to the floor. "No," she whispered.

"Oh. You are still here, are you? The boy that Erik was so fond of." _It_ laughed. "I once defeated an entire army of men. And you two think you actually have a chance?"

_It_ was right. She stared downward, feeling the heat from the flames brush against her cheeks. They couldn't fight this thing. Even if she had some defense against the creature, her abilities weren't even close to being enough. They were humans fighting a nightmare.

_It_ leaved over her, a quivering black mass.

"No!" Meg cried, rushing forward with outstretched arms. "No! Don't hurt her! Don't hurt Christine!"

"Hush, Megan!" _it_ snapped. "Sit down and wait. All will be fine soon. We will resume our ceremony in a moment."

"Don't hurt her!" she cried. "Please stop! Stop!"

"You will not need her any longer! She is far, far beneath you!"

Meg was forced back down, weeping. Raoul groaned and raised his head. Christine hoped he would stay down.

"See? You have upset Megan," _it_ growled at her. Finally, apathy had turned to anger. "You have created another needless delay in this highly delicate process. And you know, Christine Daae? I think that if Erik were going to return, he would have done so by now, don't you? I think he is long gone. I think you drove him out of his mind. And out of his body. Know that I will always be grateful to you for that."

So that was the reason. That was why the creature hadn't simply killed her. Erik might still be in there somewhere. And he might still care. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Cold shadowed hands wrapped around her neck. Slowly, they began to choke off her air. She gasped and struggled.

_It _paused. _It_ waited.

For Erik.

"I didn't think so," _it_ stated with satisfaction. "So, really, there is no reason to keep you alive, is there?"

She could hear Meg and Raoul screaming, but they were held in place.

The hands tightened. The room started to turn black.

And then—a flicker of yellow within the orange eyes.

The grip loosened. She sucked in oxygen.

"She hates you!" hissed the thing, twitching and vibrating. "Why do you care? She _hates _you! She hates you, and she always will. Let go of me. Let go before I make you regret this night for the rest of your miserable life, Erik."

Erik's soft reply, like a distant whisper in her mind, made her prepare for death-

"Perhaps she does hate me. Perhaps she always will."

The cold grip again tightened around her neck; she was silenced from speaking to Erik. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

She wanted to tell him that, if he came back, she'd spend the rest of her life trying to help him—trying to rid the world of whatever this was. She wanted to tell him she understood so much better now. She wanted to tell him that she didn't hate him.

But she couldn't say a word.

The eyes flickered back to fiery orange. The thing grinned.


	23. Chapter 23

**So this chapter marks the end of the first part. If I were writing a book, I'd end it and start the sequel. For simplicity, though, I'll continue the second part here. So please don't take this story off your alerts! I feel the need to make the division as the second part has its own plot, climax, and ending.**

**I hope you enjoyed the first part! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

"_Perhaps she does hate me. Perhaps she always will."_

As the world faded, she stared into the thing's face. For a second, Christine thought she saw people in that quivering mass, like a moving photography collage. People from all different centuries of various classes and cultures.

_Its_ memories, she somehow knew. Hypnotizing.

Erik's voice drew her away. _"Perhaps she despises me. But - I still love her. I want her to live. I…want her to be happy."_

Yellow eyes. An unnatural high-pitched scream of rage.

She was seconds from passing out when the frigid hands dropped her. Choking and sputtering, Christine slumped to the cold floorboards. The world spun, and time seemed to pass in slow motion. Pulling herself up, she looked at the creature. A human being was again flickering through the monster.

She crawled away, still not certain as to who was in control. She could hear the thing screaming and cursing, which could only be a good sign. "I will destroy you, Erik!" The book suddenly flew into the fireplace. With a sweep of an arm, _it_—no, _he_ swept all of the candles and other items to the ground with a smoky and metallic crash.

The thing roared so loudly that she covered her ears and ducked. The shadows separated and swam down the walls. And then the lights went out, leaving only the frantically dancing fire.

Meg had fallen to the floor, her eyes closing as the shadows lifted from her like a swarm of black bees. Raoul was crawling over to her still form. He looked at Christine, and they met eyes. "Get her out of here!" she yelled at him.

A hot wind rushed through the cabin, nearly scorching her skin. Again, Christine ducked. The fire began to jump out of the hearth, igniting the wooden floors. The orange flames took on a life of their own, running along the walls and ceiling, consuming everything in their path at an unnatural pace. "No," she whispered, frantically scuttling toward the door as smoke engulfed the rooms. She could no longer see her friends.

Christine finally looked back and saw Erik, standing near the same place and staring at the growing fire. And he softly muttered, "No. Not again. Not again."

"Erik!" she screamed to snap him out of his daze.

The thing growled, _"I am going to incinerate them. And then perhaps next time you will obey me, Erik!"_

The smoke was becoming too much. She coughed as her eyes watered, again scooting forward. Then hands grabbed her beneath the arms and pulled her through the darkness. A burst of cold, fresh air. A clear night sky with twinkling stars. Erik placed her a safe distance away from the cabin. She hit the ground and let her cheek fall against the dirt and grass. Hovering on the brink of unconsciousness, she lay there for several seconds, inhaling deep breaths. Then she looked up to make sure everyone else would get out alive, fingers digging into the soil as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Three beautiful human forms appeared in the doorway of the burning cabin.

Raoul was cradling Meg with both arms, and Erik had him by the shoulder, half dragging and half pulling him out. Erik dropped her friends beside her. A sob of relief escaped her lips, the taste of burnt wood still lingering on her tongue. Raoul coughed and gently set Meg on the ground. Christine placed a reassuring hand on his knee and looked down at her unconscious friend. "Is she okay?" Christine whispered.

Raoul touched the side of Meg's neck with two fingers. They could both see her rising and falling chest. "I think so," he practically choked out. "I mean physically, yeah."

"Are you okay?" she asked him, staring into his frightened blue eyes.

"I have a bad headache." His voice was hoarse, and his face was lined with soot. He touched the back of his skull where the creature had hurled him against the wall. "But I think I'll make it. You?"

"Yeah. I think so." She could still feel a soreness around her neck, reminding her of how closed she'd come to death. Before—Christine searched for him in the illuminated trees. Fifty yards away from them, with his back turned toward the burning cabin. A half-shadow, half-human.

"Christine. What are you—"

It took all her energy to get up and walk, but she made it to her feet. "I'll be right back. If the fire gets worse, take Meg and run back toward the main road. I'll find you." She would be safe; Erik didn't burn.

"But isn't that—"

"I'll be right back."

Her heart pounded as she approached him, her shoes crunching against the branches and leaves. She ignored her fear. The cabin had begun to burn out, and she was grateful that it hadn't ignited the trees. The fire had been unnatural, she supposed. Hateful vengeance.

She could hear the voice of the thing speaking to him. _"I am going to make you suffer for this. Again, Erik? Again you fail me? For nothing? For her hatred. You need a long reminder of whom it is that you serve. Look at yourself! You are pathetic! And you will grow even more disgusting!"_

"Erik?" Her voice cut through the cruelty, soft and hesitant. His back was still turned toward her. Every so often, he would twitch or flinch. "Erik?"

"Why are you here?" A pause. "Oh. Here. Go," he said through clenched teeth. His voice had returned, and she knew that the creature no longer possessed him. She heard a thud. A black car key was lying at her feet. "I will never touch your life again," he whispered. "Go. Please go."

"_Pathetic!"_

"Erik, look at me."

"Go, Christine. Take your friends and go. The girl—Megan will recover. Nothing will be permanent."

"_Disgusting and pathetic!"_

"You're not disgusting or pathetic." Her voice cracked. "You came back."

"_She despises you!"_

"I don't despise you," she bravely continued. "You came back, and you saved us. All of us. So this thing…it's lying to you, you know? Whatever it is, all it does is lie to you. Do you know that?"

He turned toward her very slightly. Even though both his hands were covering his face, she could tell that his flesh had become distorted. His face was that of a skeleton again. Considering she'd been dealing with a fanged shadow monster all evening, Christine didn't flinch.

"_She hates you!"_

She glared at it. "I don't hate you, Erik. I was very confused. And scared. But I do not hate you."

"All this time?" he murmured, staring into her eyes. "You could hear and see it? All this time?"

"I could barely feel it when we first met. It seemed weaker then."

"Yes," he hoarsely replied. "I had tried to kill it. So many times. But then you—you were here. And I did not want to be a monster when you—you were so very beautiful."

"Erik—"

"I tried to make you want me as I wanted you. But you only became more terrified. And the more you wanted to run from me, the more I lost my mind. Until—"

"Until there was little of you left." She took a deep breath and moved a strand of hair away from her tear-streaked cheeks. "I could sense you changing. Becoming more dangerous. And the Shadow kept growing. I thought I was going crazy."

"And I became even more of a monster to you. Yes, I see. I see now." His shoulders slumped. "I see everything."

"_Yes, Erik. You will be a monster to her. I could have given you any other woman. But you choose to be disgusting instead."_

"Come here," she said.

He took a step away from her. "No. N-no, Erik is so disgust—"

"You're not disgusting." She wrapped a hand around his upper arm, and he stilled. She gently pried his right hand from his cheek. She brought her lips to his sallow, wrinkled flesh. The thing yanked on her hair; she ignored _it_. "You look human now," she said, drawing back and looking into his mournful yellow eyes. She placed a hand on his cheek. "When you came back and saved us—when you stopped the horrible ritual - that makes you a man and not that monster. Not your face. Don't listen to _it_ anymore. Please. Erik, you are not _it_."

His eyes softened, a solitary tear trailing down his cheek. She let her head touch his for a moment, unafraid of information. She saw parts of his life again, of places far away. Of sad things and bad things. And then Christine saw what she guessed were bits of the thing's memories. She saw visions from hundreds of years ago that were blurry, and she couldn't understand the languages of the people. With horror, she saw a crowd trying to burn someone at the stake. The person wouldn't catch fire. But, instead of looking victorious, the man tied to the wooden post appeared utterly miserable. And she saw things that were less long ago. They were far more vivid.

"B_ecause it-it might be a boy, Renie. It might be a b-boy."_

A blonde woman replied,_ "So what if it's a boy? What does that matter?"_

And then the same blonde woman holding a crying little girl-

_"I want it to go away now!"_

_"What?"_

_"My friend."_

_"What? Maddy, your friend isn't real!"_

Ominous shadows hovered over all of them.

Christine saw all of this within a span of several seconds. It was long enough to store the information but not long enough to process it.

Erik flinched away from her. The memories ended. Christine at first thought his actions were the result of something she had done. Then she saw that his fingers and palms were bleeding. The thing was torturing him.

"Stop," she couldn't help but plead, hands rising up helplessly. How did she even begin to fight this thing?

"Stop what?" asked Erik. "Oh. You are speaking to—" He let out a low laugh. "That is so strange."

Before she could reply, Erik grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her forward. She let out a soft cry of surprise as she stumbled. There was a crash behind her. Christine glanced down. A large branch had nearly fallen on her head.

The thing was still fighting them—completely relentless.

Raoul started to run over. "I'm okay!" she called, holding up both palms. "Stay back."

Erik took several steps backward, blood leaking through the front of his white shirt as the creature clawed and scratched at him. "Erik must weaken _it_ again," he stated in a shaky voice. "The thing has grown far too strong. And that is my fault, you see. I fed it."

"Erik—"

"I will not ruin your life any longer. Look what Erik has done," he whispered, his eyes settling on the blackened cabin ruins. "I nearly—Erik will not again. Not a third time."

"Listen to me!" She quickly continued. "There-there has to be a reason why I can see it. Maybe there's a reason I heard you in the library. Maybe we were meant to meet! Maybe—"

"No." He rapidly shook his head. "No. You have no obligations to me."

"It's not an obligation. I want—I want to help you." And there she'd said it. She'd invited him to stay in her life, knowing the consequences. Her heart skipped a fearful beat, but she continued, "I want to help you because I care about you. I've cared since those days in the library. And because this isn't right. This can't be right! Let me try. Please."

He stared at her with disbelief for a moment. And it was that look, however fleeting, that gave her hope in the coming weeks. His hand lifted, and it almost looked like he wanted to touch her face with the tips of his fingers.

But then the branches creaked threateningly overhead. "I have to weaken it," he repeated, stepping further back. He flinched and released a soft groan. A red slash appeared across his face, from the corner of his left eye to the right edge of his thin lip. Blood trickled into his mouth.

"_You will regret this night, Erik."_

"Stop!" she screamed at _it._

"Oh, Christine," Erik whispered. "Don't you know? _It_ will never stop." He glanced behind her toward Meg and Raoul. "I am…so very sorry."

And then he turned and ran before she could reply. She called after him once, but he disappeared into the woods within seconds. The humming faded. And she was left with silence, the scent of scorched wood faint in the air. She stood there staring into the darkness with tears running down her cheeks. A cool wind brushed her face, calming and gentle.

Slowly, she bent down and picked up the key. Her hand wrapped around it.

"Christine? Are you okay?" Raoul asked. He approached her from behind, staring at the spot where Erik had stood.

"Yeah," she whispered. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "How's Meg?"

"I think she'll wake up soon." He paused. "Were you just talking to—I mean…Who was….?"

Instead of answering, she turned and embraced him, burying her face into his shoulder. Even after all he had been through, Raoul still carried the comforting scents of cologne and shampoo.

"We'll be okay," he said, slowly wrapping his arms around her. "We'll be okay, Christine. It's all right. Let's just get the hell out of here."

Finally, she stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Do you think you can drive?" she asked, holding up the key.

"I think so." He touched the back of his head. "We'll find the nearest hospital." He again glanced toward the thick trees as they started back toward Meg. "Are we still in any danger?"

"No," she softly replied. He picked up Meg and carried her toward the car. She looked back once as well. "It's over."

Raoul climbed into the driver's seat and shakily started the vehicle. The engine roared to life, and the dashboard lit up with various green and red icons. The heat blew over them from all sides. He took a moment to figure out the car. Christine sat in the spacious back with Meg leaning against her shoulder. For several minutes, they drove through a wooded area. And then they were back on a main street.

"Slow down," she murmured to Raoul as he pushed ninety.

"Sorry. I just want to get the hell away from here. Holy crap. Holy crap…." He was obviously trying to process everything that had happened.

Several minutes later, Meg stirred beside her. Slowly, she raised her blonde head and looked around, her mouth twisting with confusion. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clearer than they'd been in some time. Christine swallowed nervously and smiled. "Hi there," she said.

"Hi," Meg replied, blinking at her. She continued to look toward the windows and the front seat. "Are we still taking Christine to the hospital?"

Christine hesitated.

"Um." Raoul cleared his throat. "We're going to the hospital. Yeah."

"We're going to be okay," Christine told her, unsure as to how this would go.

Meg glanced down at herself and then nearly shouted, "Why am I only wearing a blanket?!"

She and Raoul exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror.

Meg continued to speak before they could answer, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself, "I also had a weird dream that I was going to be a famous and beautiful dancer. It was so real. I can still see it."

"You'll still be a beautiful dancer," said Christine, patting her arm.

Meg looked down. "I don't think I will be, actually." She shook her head. "I feel so funny. Kind of sick actually."

Raoul glanced back. "Should I pull over?"

A pause. Meg swallowed and took a deep breath. "No. I think I'll be okay."

They drove in silence again. Raoul turned on a soft rock radio station, probably in an attempt to drown out his thoughts.

"Meg, are you…unhappy?" Christine hesitantly asked.

She shrugged. "No. I guess-I guess I just saw things working out a little differently for me. That's all."

"Yeah," said Christine, wiping at her eyes again. "Things never quite work out like they're supposed to."

"Nope. It's kind of depressing, huh? No matter how hard you try, sometimes…sometimes it just doesn't come together right."

"Yeah. It can be very depressing," she whispered.

Meg looked at her more closely. "Are you sad because you're sick? I'm sure you'll get better, Christine."

"I'm sure I will, too."

"Now, why don't I have clothes on?" she whispered so that Raoul couldn't hear this time."

Christine made up a terrible lie. "You spilled a drink on yourself. A sticky orange drink. And we had to take—" To her relief, Raoul suddenly broke into their conversation.

"There's another car!" he exclaimed. "Look! I never thought I'd be so happy to see traffic! Yes! Back to civilization! This is how those guys in _Deliverance _must have felt! Yes!"

They both glanced at him, and Meg laughed softly. "Did we all go crazy?"

"I think so," said Christine, cracking a smile. "I must have rubbed off on you both."

And soon they joined other vehicles and people. They returned to the real world. Using the high-tech navigation system, Raoul drove to the closest hospital. Unfortunately, she and Raoul couldn't keep Meg from the truth forever.

One of the front hospital bulletin boards had been changed to feature a Saint Patrick's Day theme, with green clovers on the borders and a leprechaun holding a pot of gold at the center. Neither Christine nor Raoul paid it much attention. But Meg blinked and asked, "Isn't it a little early for that? Where are the Christmas decorations?"

And she began to cry hysterically when Christine gently informed her that it was nearly March. Over two months had passed since her abduction. Meg's panic attack drew the attention of the hospital staff, and they wheeled her away for an examination. Raoul tiredly told them that Megan Giry was a missing person. The police and her family were quickly summoned.

Christine and Raoul were treated for cuts and bruises. Raoul held a lumpy pack of ice to the back of his head. They sat in a white waiting room on blue cushioned chairs, recovering and preparing to be questioned by the authorities.

"What do we tell her?" Raoul finally asked. No one else was sitting close to them. It was nearing nine o'clock. "What do we tell anyone?"

"We'll just say she was kidnapped," Christine murmured. A white bandage covered her arm. She'd either scraped herself when the thing had paralyzed her or when she'd tried to escape the burning cabin. "That she called us for help, and we rescued her. If she can't remember it all, maybe the less she knows, the better. I don't know if I'd want to remember being some creature's birth vessel." Christine shuddered.

"I don't even know the whole truth," Raoul admitted.

"I don't either," she half-lied.

"Do we still have reason to be scared?"

"No. We're safe. He let us go." She knew this in her heart, had seen the regret in his eyes.

"So was he a human being then?" Raoul continued.

"Yes," she stated. "Erik is a human being. And he came back and fought the evil thing. And that's why we're alive and here."

"Should we do anything? Like contact - I don't know - Ghostbusters?"

She softly chuckled. At least he hadn't lost his sense of humor. "If you can find their number, give them a call. Otherwise, no. Let's keep this to ourselves for a little while. Okay?"

"Okay. So what do we do now?" he pressed. He wanted an answer so badly.

She looked at him and gave a close-lipped smile. "We go to bed. Get up. Go to school. Or work. Watch television. Eat dinner. Brush our teeth. Go to bed. That's what we do, right?"

"But we should—"

"Do what?" she asked. "What should we do about this? Do you want to tell the police the entire true story? Where will that get us? The psych ward?" He opened his mouth but didn't have an answer. And then she asked what he wanted for dinner.

"Does a burger sound good?" he asked.

"That sounds fantastic."

He would get upset if he knew what was really going on in her head. With good reason. And lies were never good in relationships. But—

But it had to be this way right now. She was not going to put anyone else in danger again.

They formed a simple story for the police: After Meg had called them begging for help, they'd immediately gone to find her.

"Why didn't you call 9-11?" asked an older officer with a thick grey moustache, eyeing them with suspicion.

"We were driving when she called," said Christine. "We only had one phone and didn't want to hang up on her while she gave us directions. We didn't have great service out there. So when we did try to call the police, our phones wouldn't work."

"It was a really creepy, isolated place, Sir," Raoul added.

Meg had apparently given the police a description of her kidnapper, saying she had a vague memory of a tall, dark-haired man taking her away. At least that gave the cops a ghost to chase for a few days before they finally gave up. They would say the perpetrator torched the cabin to destroy the evidence. In the end, Christine and Raoul couldn't really be accused of anything except making some poor choices. Meg had been found alive, and she hadn't blamed her friends for her kidnapping.

"Something is weird about this entire thing," she heard one officer mutter to another in the hallway. "Not sure if it's worth further investigating these kids or not. Neither of them have a history. Squeaky clean college students. The boy's dad is well-connected. Girl is definitely a nobody."

"At least it's a happy ending for the news," replied the other. "Missing girl found alive. Let's not add a 'but' to it."

Before they left, Christine checked in on Meg one last time. Mrs. Giry was holding her daughter's hand, and Meg had been given something to help her relax and sleep.

"How is she?" Christine softly asked.

"Very confused," said Mrs. Giry, glancing up with a sigh. "But they checked, and she wasn't…hurt in any horrible way. So—so we have that to be grateful for. They think she'll recover."

"I'm glad Raoul and I got there in time," said Christine.

Mrs. Giry stared at her. She glanced down and hesitated before stating, "I just wish the police could have caught the bastard. It's too bad that you weren't able to call them in time."

"Our phones didn't have service," said Christine, the lie rolling easily off her tongue by now. "It was a desperate situation. Raoul was very brave, though. He wanted to save her before she was hurt. So we did what we could."

"Right." She looked like she wanted to ask something else but refrained. "Thank you. Yes, I'm very grateful to you both."

"Tell her to call me whenever she wants to talk," said Christine. "Anytime. I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you, Christine. I'm sure she'll want to talk to you eventually."

Mrs. Giry stared at her as she walked out of the room. Meg's mother would probably never completely trust her and Raoul. Christine didn't know if her friendship with Meg would ever be the same.

Who was she kidding? Nothing would be the same.

She and Raoul left the hospital by taxi, not wanting to be associated with that black car for any longer than necessary. Or as Raoul said, "It looks like it came out of a spy movie." After retrieving his car from the airport, they ate at a local burger chain. Salty fries were bland. Her milkshake was watery.

She stayed with Raoul for a couple days. The airport returned her suitcase to her. By some miracle, her purse was also mailed to her in an inconspicuous brown carton. The return address was a local post office box. She looked through the contents. Billfold. Make-up bag. Old phone. Nothing was missing. Nothing had been added either.

Most of the time, Raoul took her advice and tried to get back to normal. Movies. Homework. They went ice-skating again. But sometimes, he would get a disturbed look in his eyes and then the questions would begin. "What do you think it was? Do you think we could have been on drugs the entire time? Where'd it go?"

And the problem was that she couldn't answer those inquiries. And she couldn't quite get back to normal either. She could just fake it for a while.

Soon, Christine said that she wanted to go back to her apartment for a few nights. Just to have some time to herself. Finish up homework. Clean. Watch silly girlie shows on television. She hugged Raoul and kissed him and told him they could get together over the weekend for a date. He reluctantly let her go with a, "Call me if you need me."

"You do the same," she softly replied, knowing how difficult the last months had been for him.

The familiar smells and sights of her old apartment were somewhat comforting. When she first got home, Christine did exactly as she said. School. Housekeeping. Mindless T.V. Sweet and salty snacks that were less than healthy.

While dusting her bedroom, she noticed that the fake engagement ring was still on her finger, sparkling slightly in the light. She slid it off and placed the object gently in a jewelry box, beside her most expensive pair of earrings. It would be safe there until….Well, at least until another day.

She watched her favorite sitcom with a bowl of microwaved caramel corn. Around ten, she turned off the television. Her father's letter lay on the coffee table. She picked it up and reread the words with new eyes. There were still so many things that didn't make sense, but she could see the pieces of the puzzle sprawled out before her, waiting to be solved.

She sat in the dark for a long while, taking in the calm and quiet. Everything was deceptively still. And her very reasonable brain said to her_—"It could stay this way. The past months could be a bad dream. You're finally free now. This could be the end. And how bad would that really be?"_

But the reasonable part of her brain had also been telling her that she was crazy for the last ten years. Maybe it was time to start giving her feelings and intuition more credit.

Christine took in the peacefulness with deep, calming breaths. She closed her eyes and relished the normalcy. She relished knowing that she was sane and not sick. And being alive and the knowledge that her friends were okay. And having so many second chances.

What she didn't relish was the knowledge that _he_ was out there suffering in ways she'd only begun to understand. That he was battling something that, by all definitions, shouldn't exist in the first place. Something that might be a threat to the whole world.

And Christine still didn't know what to do…how to help…how this would end. And that was terrifying. Her heart ached. Thoughts of the future weighed heavily upon her.

Still, she took that moment for herself. A moment of tranquility. Of peace and, finally, of self-acceptance. She gathered her strength.

Because, tomorrow, her search for answers would begin.

_End Part I_


	24. Chapter 24

**Here we go! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments.**

**So this part will have a slightly different feel than the first half. The first part vaguely followed the POTO plotline. This part is more original with some inspiration from other sources. Hope you enjoy!**

It took over a month for the dreams to begin.

Not dreams - memories. Someone else's memories.

_Something_ else's memories.

There was a period of time when Christine could access only bits and pieces of cryptic information. A signature as Irene C. Dienstbach took possession of her deceased relative's belongings and baby girl. A child's cherubic face as she lovingly played with her dolls.

Maybe Christine's brain had become an overheated computer and needed time to cool down. But, one night, the steady dreams started as though someone had finally pressed play.

A large cocktail party. In a big and beautiful home with white walls, dark hardwood floors, and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

A jazz tune ended, the saxophone playing its last note. The men wore charcoal grey and black suits with double-breasted jackets, the legs of their trousers wide. They smoked cigars and chatted in the corners. The women wore skirts that fell just below the knee and belts tightly wrapped around their waists, showing off perfect hourglass figures. Some of their necklines dipped dangerously low. Their hair was styled short and curled loosely. Someone mentioned President Truman and the growing Soviet threat. There was talk of televisions. More people were buying them now. An old man kept insisting that he didn't understand the point of the talking boxes.

Yet not everyone was having fun.

"Who's that over there?" asked a dark-haired woman wearing a dress decorated with little cherries. She gestured at the corner with her martini glass. Two of the women with her shrugged, their attention focused on a loud group of men across the room.

A red head with bright pink lips replied, "Oh, I know! The hosts' second daughter. What's her name? Lila? No. Uh. Um. Lillian!"

"Is she ill?" asked a brunette.

The redhead leaned in, seemingly excited to be the one with this information. "Poor thing had the polio virus as a child. They thought she wouldn't make it. Nearly pulled her out of the iron lung and let the Good Lord do as he would. But she lived and can breathe on her own. She's still very weak, though. I've heard that a nurse takes care of her. Parents are always traveling. Poor little thing."

They murmured their sympathy, and the one with cherries said this is why she'd never let her children swim in public pools.

Christine followed their gazes, feeling like she was another woman in the room. A girl of about eighteen was sitting in a wooden wheelchair beneath a set of carpeted stairs, nearly hidden. She was dressed in a soft white gown that covered most of her body, and she wore satin gloves of the same color. Her clothing seemed out of fashion when compared to the dresses of the other women. Her hair was shiny, black, and hung down over her frail shoulders. She kept her eyes cast toward the floor. No one spoke to her.

Someone began to sing as a piano played a slower melody.

From literally out of the shadows, a guest wearing a black mask suddenly approached Lillian. For a chilling second, Christine thought it was Erik. But no. There were clear differences. This man was shorter and less lean, more broad-shouldered. He wore a grey suit and a matching stylish hat with a black band.

"Good evening, Lillian," the man greeted. Christine knew she'd heard that voice before.

"Good evening, Sir," Lillian softly replied, keeping her gaze on her folded hands. She refused to look the man in the eye.

"How are you tonight?" he continued, hovering a bit too closely to her.

"Fine, thank you." She paused and finally looked up, immediately squinting at the mask. "Are you looking for my sisters?"

He laughed, and there was an eeriness to the sound. "And why would I be doing that?"

"Most men are looking for my sisters. And I don't know where they are."

"Well, I am certainly not most men. I can promise you that. And I am not looking for your sisters." He crouched down to her level. "You don't look very happy over here."

"I'm fine." She frowned. "Why are you wearing a mask? Did someone tell you it was going to be a costume party? They lied to you, you know?"

"Did they? Oh, dear." He chuckled again. "Would you like to go into the back gardens with me? I'd love to talk to you, but it's noisy in here. You're too beautiful to be over here all by yourself looking so lonesome."

She sniffed. "Who exactly are you? Did my father send you over here out of pity? Well, you can tell him that I don't want it. I'm just fine." She slowly crossed her arms, as though it were difficult for her to do so, and turned away.

"No. No, I barely know your parents. I'm from far out of town and came with friends. My name is Alexander. Alexander the Great!" He removed his hat, stood, and bowed melodramatically. Then he did a strange little tap dance, spun around, and came back to a kneeling position.

This finally drew a laugh from her. Her posture relaxed slightly. "What's so great about you, Alexander? Not your dancing, I hope."

"If you will come with me, dear Lillian, I will tell you what is so great about me. I promise not to bore you."

Lillian hesitated. It was obvious that he had intrigued her. Her eyes sparkled for the first time that night. Finally, someone had noticed her with something besides pity. Finally, someone with a bit of mystery—and not another dull partygoer hoping to climb the social ladder.

"Yes. I could use some fresh air," she replied. "This party is awful. My parents do it every year. Always something to celebrate. The beginning of the war. The end of the war. An inauguration. They would celebrate the plague if it made a return."

Alexander chuckled as he pushed her toward the open back doors. But his eyes had darkened to black behind the mask.

Just before they disappeared outside, he slowly turned toward Christine. With one hand, he ripped off his mask to reveal a death's head. And then he transformed into the Shadow Creature. He grinned with fangs.

And his evil eyes seemed to say—_I am everywhere!_

Christine sat up straight in bed and screamed.

* * *

><p>"Thirty-love!"<p>

_Thwack!_

Christine heard the sound before she felt the pounding pain. Dots decorated her vision, and she released a soft groan.

"Damn it, Neil!" Raoul exclaimed as she dropped her racket with a clatter and clutched her forehead. "Do you really have to serve it that hard at her? Way out, too."

"Sorry, dude. Didn't mean to! She okay?"

Fast footsteps followed as Raoul ran over to her. "Are you okay, babe?"

"Yeah." She lowered her hands as her head continued to throb.

"I can go beat him up for you."

"That's okay. It was kind of my fault. I wasn't paying attention." She softly laughed. "I'll have a nice bruise, though. People are going to wonder what I do in my spare time—all the injuries I've gotten this year."

Raoul looked momentarily uncomfortable. They hadn't mentioned their horrific experience in a couple weeks. "Well, tell them you took up professional boxing."

"I'm sure they'd believe that. I'll put some ice on it afterwards. It'll be fine."

"If you're sure…." He kissed her forehead. They finished up the set, and she and Raoul lost miserably, mostly thanks to Christine.

Jessica and Neil high-fived at the end as though winning had actually been a challenge. They were both tall, athletic, and blonde. And they were nice enough. Neil and Raoul had been friends for quite a few years and could always find something to talk about. As they discussed a summer camping trip in the mountains, Jessica came up beside her. Christine gave her a polite smile and continued to zip her cheaper racket up into its white case.

"Hey. How's it going?"

"Good," Christine replied. "Well, except for losing miserably. Heh."

"No worries. It's all in fun." She glanced at Christine's ring-less hand and her voice softened. "I'm glad everything worked out. I mean, for you guys. After the engagement was called off, I wasn't sure how it would all play out."

Christine felt her stomach twist up a little. "Well, you know, we just had some things to work out. And we decided not to rush it."

"Right. Yeah, I totally get it. The eloping thing seemed kind of rushed."

"Yeah."

"But I can understand," Jessica continued. "Sometimes you get kind of passionate and crazy. I've had moments where I'm like, 'Screw the wedding! Let's go to Vegas and get married right now!'"

Christine chuckled. "Congrats to you guys on the engagement."

Jessica smiled widely. "Thanks. Yeah, we're excited. Lots of wedding planning to do. My mom and I are going dress shopping this weekend."

Christine was hoping that the topic of her wedding would give Jessica something to talk about for the next fifteen minutes. But after a few more comments on catering and music, she said, "You look tired. Or is it cause my dumb fiancé hit you in the head. Boys. When it comes to sports, they always have to be hardcore, right?"

"Oh. No," Christine replied. "My head is fine. I was just up late. Studying. Tests. Homework." _18th century demonology books._

"Oh. That's rough."

Christine was probably supposed to carry her part of the conversation. But she'd been up since three in the morning after that awful nightmare.

Lying in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, shivering, Christine had finally remembered where she'd heard Alexander's voice. From Erik's memories. The handsome man with the creepy black eyes. "_Erik, you idiot! You ruined everything!"_

Thoughts had flown through her mind so quickly that Christine had jumped out of bed at two and begun to write them down in a little spiral notebook.

Was Alexander the previous version of Erik? Who was Lillian? Erik's grandmother or mother? That didn't seem right…. What had happened to Lillian? Why was Alexander so angry at Erik in that other memory?

"Christine?"

Jessica was staring at her. So were Raoul and Neil.

"What's going on?" Christine asked.

Neil laughed heartily. Jessica hid a smile. Raoul just looked concerned. "Um," her boyfriend began. "We were talking about going out to dinner."

Neil continued to chuckle. "And we only asked you four times what sounded good."

"Sorry," she murmured. "Um, I'm fried. I need to sleep, I think. I'll make terrible company, and I'm not that hungry." She turned to Raoul. "But you go. Have fun. I can take the bus home."

"I'm kind of tired, too," said Raoul. He waved at his friends. Christine braced herself for the approaching conversation. "You two go have a good time. We'll catch you later."

They said their goodbyes, and she and Raoul headed for his car. The spring sun was becoming warmer, and the trees and grass were turning green. There was a comfort to the brightness and newness, and yet also the feel of upcoming change.

"Are you okay?" he softly asked once they were inside the vehicle. He turned on the air conditioning at a low setting.

"Yeah," she replied. "Like I said, tired."

"Right. It's only that, well, you seem that way a lot. A little out of it. I wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"Yeah. Classes have been a little rough."

"That's all it is?"

"Yeah."

I-" He hesitated.

"You what?" She had a feeling as to what was coming.

"I've always wondered if we should have talked to someone after all that. Gotten some counseling."

She shrugged. "What would we say?"

"That's just it. We can't talk about it with anyone. We'd sound crazy. But _not _talking about it doesn't seem right either. If there's something that damn screwed up in the world, shouldn't other people know about it?"

She rubbed her temples with one hand and closed her eyes. "I'm not talking about it with anyone else."

"Why? There are paranormal investigators who might actually believe us. I looked them up online. Whole groups of people are devoted to this kind of thing. It'd be a start."

"Do what you want." She cringed at herself after she said it. Lack of sleep was killing her mood.

"I don't know why you have to be like this," he said, irritated. "I've tried to forget. I've tried to get back to normal. But you've changed. You're like a stranger these days. I have to say something five times before you hear it. So maybe reaching out to someone could help both of us. But you're against that, too. What do you want, Christine? How can I help?"

She should have known that her secrecy would start to complicate things. She'd even begun keeping Raoul out of her apartment, which was starting to resemble a library from the 1800's. Old dusty books of various colors covered the couch, table, and floors. The living room even smelled like them, mustier. She hoped no one was monitoring her purchases and rentals. They'd probably think she was practicing witchcraft.

Christine finally offered him a bit of honesty. "I'm doing my own research," she said. "You're right. I haven't forgotten. But I don't want to involve anyone until I know more."

"Oh." He looked back and forth between her and the road. "Really. Have you found anything?" His voice was a little shaky, and she knew he was still afraid.

"Not really. Most of it's about stuff that isn't real. Or I guess it's not. Every religion out there has its own types of spirits and—and demons. And there are spells. I mean, I could try to turn you into a newt or something." That got a soft laugh from him.

"Right. Huh. Interesting. But we still don't really know anything?"

"Right." That was a lie.

"Well, is there anything I can help with?" he asked.

She was about to tell him 'no.' But maybe it'd make him feel better. "Look online for good books on the supernatural. Sometimes you can win bidding wars on the more expensive ones. That's what I'm doing."

"Okay. Yeah. I can definitely do that."

She changed the subject. "How are your classes going?"

"Good. Finance has been kind of rough, but I'll pass."

"Great," she replied, smiling and making sure she didn't drift into la-la land again. She was really going to have to stop that. "When I actually have money, you can invest it for me."

"And then lose it all?" he asked. Their mood lightened as he drove her home. She still wasn't ready to bring him inside, though. Christine kissed him goodbye in the car, promised to call, and then rushed into her apartment. She collapsed into her unmade bed for the next three hours and slept. Thankfully, there were no more dreams.

When she awoke and slowly walked back to the living room, her gaze traveled between the timeworn books and her homework.

Even after everything, she'd stayed in her courses. She'd missed a couple of classes in late February, but the professors had been sympathetic enough to let her make up the work. She did have visible injuries after all, and they knew about Megan Giry's disappearance. Still, her grades weren't great because of all the distraction. She'd probably pass, but her GPA was going to take another hit.

Christine also needed to talk to Regina about returning to work. Begging for work, really. Otherwise, her finances were going to become a disaster. And there was also something comforting about returning to stacks of books. Only Joe's death darkened the idea. She was nearly certain now that he had been some sort of sacrifice to that terrible thing.

_And Erik had facilitated it._

Feeling overwhelmed with all the thoughts, Christine slumped onto her old couch, knocking a couple of books and papers onto the floor. She managed to do a few pages of music theory homework and read ten pages from a child psychology text. She checked her phone once and was disappointed. Three days ago, she'd called Meg but hadn't heard back yet. Meg had gone home from the hospital with her parents to recover, and their communications had been brief.

Right before Meg left the hospital, after they'd played a somber game of Gin Rummy, Christine had asked, "Meg, you—do you blame me for what happened?"

"No," she'd immediately replied. "I mean, I don't think you guys meant for it to happen. I don't blame you."

"Then is something else wrong?"

"No. Well, I guess I'm not entirely sure if you've told me all you know about that night." She waited for Christine's response. "But maybe you have. I've just been tired and trying to remember what happened to me. Counseling is helping. And I'm rethinking parts of my life. Maybe grad school wasn't for me."

"Well, there are other things you could definitely pursue."

"Yeah. There are. I'll be okay." And Christine could tell Meg was disappointed that she hadn't offered more information.

It was the same thing with Raoul in a way. Both of them thought that Christine wasn't being completely open. Both could feel her gently closing a door on them. And they were right.

But she had good reason. Christine refused to let them be hurt again. And this time, if her friends were harmed, it would be her fault. She was no longer a confused, naïve, apparently sick little girl.

This was her conscious decision to go forward. She was the one with the supernatural connection to Erik. And maybe the one who could help him.

And, frankly, she was probably the only one who could offer forgiveness. She felt for him in a way that was difficult to talk about.

And she certainly wasn't going to tell Meg or Raoul that, every evening, she listened for him.

So far, she hadn't heard or seen any sign of Erik since that night in the woods. And while the separation had given her time to think and recuperate, now Christine was ready to take another step forward. Life was sometimes overwhelming, but she at least felt that the trauma of the last ten years had had a purpose.

Several nights ago, she'd been walking around campus, keeping an eye on the shadows. No one else had been near. And she'd swallowed her fear and softly said, "Erik, if you're near, you can come out. I'd like to talk to you.

There was no answer. There were no vibrations or hums.

Digging through century-old books wasn't getting her very far. There were plenty of tales about demons and rituals from cultures and religions all over the world. Supernatural entities were found everywhere from Babylonian mythology to medieval Christianity to modern occult practices. But nothing quite matched what she was dealing with. She'd discovered some translated letters between important figures in the Catholic Church from the early 1900's. They mentioned growing threats and frightening tales of possessions. But the possessions were never tied to spells. And debates raged on as to whether people were actually possessed, looking for attention, or mentally ill.

Bits and pieces that never quite tied together.

Maybe her dreams would take her to other places and times, but she'd only had one so far. And she still had no idea what Lillian had to do with anything.

So she needed Erik to tell her more.

And—there was one other living source. Yet just thinking about sending the e-mail made her nervous.

Erik had mentioned that his Great Aunt Irene had raised him. And now Christine had a full name. _Irene Dienstbach._ After a little searching, she'd found an obituary online. From a Florida newspaper and dated June 2002. And then she remembered—_Florida!_ Where her mother had gone for answers and winded up getting committed.

That did little for Christine's nerves.

The obituary said that Irene was survived by her niece, Madeleine or Maddy Schmidt, whom she'd treated like a daughter. And Maddy's husband. That was it. No other family.

Maddy. The little girl with the so-called imaginary friend.

So Christine had a name and a state, which eventually led her to a social networking website.

Christine was certain that this woman, now nearly sixty, knew something about the past. Her eyes matched those of the little girl's. She had been Irene's niece, which meant she was related to Erik. They were either cousins. Or….

Outside of vague books and dreams, outside of Erik himself, this was her only connection to the past. This very normal looking woman whose profile picture had her sun tanning on the back porch and holding a drink with a little yellow umbrella in it.

The draft sat in Christine's messaging box.

_Dear Madeleine,_

_Hi. My name is Christine Daae. I've started this letter so many times, but it never quite comes out right. Maybe there isn't a good way to begin. Here's the thing-_

_I think you're one of the few people in the entire world who might be able to help me._

As Christine mused over what else to say, she laughed at herself. Here she'd been up against a creature that literally could have come from Hell, and she was nervous about contacting a woman whose "likes" included cake-decorating, romantic comedies, and Cocker Spaniels.

Still, after finally finishing the message and pushing 'send,' a nervous jolt traveled through Christine's stomach.

Another step forward. Another step toward the shadows.

She dreamt again that night. Just briefly.

_Lillian was there._

_And she was running…running…running…._

* * *

><p>The first couple of weeks went entirely as expected.<p>

_It_ screamed at him and tortured him. Scratches and welts covered his body, and his face was as hideous as ever. Lying in the coffin, ignoring the pain from the bruises and sores on his back, he simply let _it _continue as though waiting for a child to stop a tantrum.

But, of course, the thing eventually needed him.

And the pain stopped. _It _spoke, weaker with each passing day. "_You were correct on a certain matter, Erik. We should not have used someone so heavily connected to your love interest. Megan was indeed perfect. For me. She would have produced a lovely heir. But—I should have used more patience and foresight. We should have found another girl. Yes?"_

He refused to even acknowledge _it. _He closed his eyes and hovered in dark space, attempting to keep his mind blank and his body still.

The thing continued, _"Christine cannot be obtained. She is a freak of nature among humans. Stay away from her. We will both find new girls, Erik. They are all the same, utterly interchangeable, and—"_

_It _continued on like this for days and then weeks. _It_ even took some of the pain from his feet and hands, urging him to get up and continue their mission.

"_Are you really going to sulk over that pathetic female forever? Get up, you idiot. Get up and obey me!"_

But he refused. Out of anger and spite and physical pain and heartache. And hope.

"_Oh, Erik. Must we really do this again? It will go the same way. You will make some ridiculous grand stand and try to fight me. I will make life increasingly uncomfortable for you. And then you will finally give in to me. So—why not simply pass over the ridiculous middle. And skip directly to the part where you acknowledge that I am the only friend you will ever have? You have nothing to lose. We both have everything to gain, Erik."_

He responded by slamming the lid to the coffin closed.

"_Fine. Fine, we will do it your way, my childish friend."_


	25. Chapter 25

So this started out as one long chapter, but I think it functions better as two shorter chapters. I promise that, after them, the reunion is not too far behind. So happy that everyone is excited about the second part! Thank you!

**Read and Review!**

A cup of coffee with heavy cream was placed on the table beside the cushy magenta armchair. A rust-colored Cocker Spaniel hopped up beside her and plopped down, creating a tight squeeze. She laughed, scooted over, and gently scratched behind the dog's velvety ears. Morning light streamed into the room, along with the scent of the ocean.

A small laptop was opened. She logged in as she did every morning around 7 AM.

Three new messages awaited her. She clicked on the first.

_Hi!_

_Are you still on for the Saturday luncheon? Alice said you and Peter might be out of town that weekend. If so, have fun! But I needed to know to make the reservations :)_

_Cheers!_

_Laura_

She replied:

_Hi Laura,_

_No, we're going out of town the weekend after. I'll be there Saturday, thanks. Can't wait to see you guys. This year is off to a rough start. Peter's mother has been unwell, and we've been making a lot of trips to Philly. Hoping everything will get better soon._

_Take care,_

_Maddy_

She clicked on the second.

_Hi Madeleine,_

_Saw you just got your roof redone. Yeah, I'm one of those nosey neighbors. Who'd you use? The storms wrecked ours, and the insurance company is being a pain in the you-know-what. Ugh._

_Thanks!_

_Ron_

She replied:

_Hi Ron,_

_We found a contractor through one of Peter's friends. They gave us a discount. And we got skylights! I'll have Peter give you a call with more info._

_Saw your daughter was back home for the summer! Guess I'm a nosey neighbor, too. Hope you're having fun!_

_Maddy_

She clicked on the third.

_Dear Madeleine,_

_Hi. My name is Christine Daae. I've started this letter so many times, but it never quite comes out right. Maybe there isn't a good way to begin. Here's the thing-_

_I think you're one of the few people in the entire world who might be able to help me._

_But not only me. I think that I have met a relative of yours. And Irene's. I'm trying to help him, but it's so difficult to know where to start. I feel so helpless, and that's why I'm reaching out to you. I've seen things that most people wouldn't believe, things that have tested my sanity, and I think you might know what I mean. I think that you've seen things, too._

_If I'm wrong, then I'm sorry. I won't bother you again. But otherwise I would love to talk to you._

_Thank you,_

_Christine_

The laptop was slammed closed.

The computer landed on the table so roughly that the cup of coffee fell over. A wet mess. A soft curse. The Cocker Spaniel jumped off the chair and looked at her owner as though to say: Have you lost your mind?

The laptop remained there, unopened, for three days.

* * *

><p>"Are you positive you'll be comfortable here, dear? I know last year was a bit, um, rough for you."<p>

"Yes. I promise this semester and summer will go much better. I just stressed myself out. There's no place I'd rather work. I love the library!"

"Well. All right. I can give you two days a week right now. If everything, um, goes well, we can revisit more hours for the summer. Okay?"

"Yes," said Christine. "That's fine. Anything would be great."

"All right then. Come in tomorrow afternoon." Regina eyed Christine carefully as though expecting her to lose her mind at any moment. The librarian was wearing an orange scarf in her hair and had gold bracelets that jangled when she moved her arms. Regina looked like somewhat who would appreciate eccentricity, but even she had her limits.

Christine put on her brightest, sanest smile and said, "Thank you! I promise you won't regret it!"

"Oh, I'm sure I won't, dear. I'm just trying to do what's best for you."

Christine was determined not to go crazy that semester. She was prepared for anything. Monsters in the closet and under the bed. Vampires. Werewolves. The Creature from the Black Lagoon.

At least she had a little bit of a job now. And she'd managed to get a B minus on her last exam. That was hopeful.

And the nights had brought her more pieces of Lillian's strange tale.

True to his word, Alexander had shown Lillian exactly what made him so great. He first gave her a taste of the gift. She ran around the woods as he stood nearby, his hands folded behind his back as he watched her like a snake would eye a rabbit. She danced and spun and turned a cartwheel. Lillian laughed almost hysterically and pulled herself onto a bare tree branch, her legs swinging over the sides. "I can't believe this!" she cried. "I can't believe this!"

She screamed as she fell from the branch when Alexander took his gift back. It was cruel, designed to instill fear in the young girl. And Lillian might have broken her neck if he hadn't caught her. She stared up at him trembling, her body weakened again. "That is enough for tonight, Lillian. A mere taste of what you can have if you please the Master."

"What does the Master want?" she whispered.

"That will be revealed in time, my dear."

The next dream took place later. As a campfire burned beneath pine trees, Lillian was lying face down on the dirt ground. Naked. Alexander hovered over her, still fully clothed in a pressed grey suit. He wore no mask now, and his face resembled that of a 1940's movie star. Except for that creepy smile. And he said, "Stand. Stand, my dear." She shakily did so, pulling herself to her knees first before struggling all the way to her feet. Tears streaked her dirt-stained cheeks. She glanced down at herself and then made a feeble attempt to cover her body. She took a step. And then another. And Christine couldn't discern whether she began to sob out of joy or terror. Probably both.

"Yes. See?" said Alexander. "Beautiful! Perfect! I have fulfilled by promise. You are going to feel strangely for a while. Desperate. The best thing to do is simply give into your natural urges. Give me what is mine. Give into the Master. And then you may enjoy your gift for the rest of your life." She started to collapse, breathing heavily, but grabbed a trunk to support herself. "Yes, you are strong, Lillian. Some women wilt like little flowers. But I know you will be fine. You have no choice. The Master is bound to you. And I will be watching you!"

Lillian turned to speak to him, her face contorted with terror. But the fire suddenly went out with a whoosh of smoke. Utter darkness followed. Alexander vanished. And yet Lillian would not be alone.

Christine heard a brief part of Lillian's last conversation with her parents.

Dressed to the nines in the latest fashions, they stared at their daughter with some mixture of wonder and fear. Her mother looked nearly ready to faint, leaning back against a grand piano with a hand covering her mouth. Her father dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief. He had a strange look in his eyes that made Christine uncomfortable. He also seemed to be traumatized by whatever he was thinking or feeling.

"I just need money," said Lillian, clasping her hands together. She was thinner, her cheekbones more prominent. "Just enough to survive for a while. Give me money, and you'll never have to see me again. I promise I'll never cause you any more trouble."

"How'd this happen?" asked her mother. "What did you do? A doctor? Surgery? What did you do?!"

"Yes, Mother. Yes. A wonderful doctor." She turned back to her father. "Please. Please I have to get away. And I promise that I'll never bother you again. Please."

Christine never saw whether they gave Lillian the money. But she was fleeing in the next dream, her raven hair flying out behind her as she glanced back every so often, probably searching for Alexander. She only carried a large brown carpet bag, and a white garment was sticking out of the top. The bag was stuffed to the brim. Christine could practically feel Lillian's heart racing and the cold perspiration on her forehead. She reached a brick train station with a pointed black roof that was illuminated by morning light. The sound of the distant whistles was loud, shrill, and haunting.

Christine could still hear them in her mind as she sat up in bed. She shivered and glanced at the clock.

It was four in the morning. Better than two or three at least.

She walked to her living room and checked her e-mail. Nothing from Meg or Madeleine.

Christine thought back over her dream as she slumped onto her couch, knowing she would get no more sleep. Did the thing always want a child as part of the bargain? If so, an important fact stuck out. Lillian wasn't immediately pregnant. Whatever happened, the process took time. And Alexander had spoken about giving in.

Christine flipped several pages into a book that detailed human and demon interaction. While tales existed about supernatural creatures born to human mothers, the author believed that these were usually lies told to cuckolded spouses. Sometimes disfigurements and disabilities were blamed on demons. But that was just the result of an ignorant and unsympathetic society.

The thing had also possessed memories from hundreds of years ago. _It_ didn't seem to be the offspring of another evil entity. The thing was more or less immortal—and wanted to continue itself. So maybe it had lied to Christine that terrifying evening. Maybe the thing didn't want an heir or a baby. Maybe the thing really wanted to live forever.

She wasn't sure what the make of all that. Except that it was as creepy as, well, Hell.

Raoul continued to provide a healthy dose of daylight. They had a picnic by the lake that sunny weekend. She made ham and American cheese sandwiches, along with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. He brought yellow potato salad and a Frisbee. They tossed the latter back and forth for a while. She paused to watch a line of brown ducklings following their mother into the water. One of them kept wandering off, and the mother would have to chase it back to the group.

"That's the rebellious teen," Raoul joked.

"Yep. Or maybe he's just adventurous. Or she."

She tried very hard to stay in the present moment with him and had done a good job so far. They talked about the upcoming summer. "We should definitely go somewhere," he said. "Anywhere. Let's get away for a while. If anyone deserves a vacation, it's us."

She agreed with him despite not knowing what the next months would bring. "That'd be fun! Although I'm not exactly swimming in money right now."

"Don't worry about that." She knew he meant it. "We could go to New York City and see all the major sites. Or the beach. Vegas. Let's make a list."

"Yeah. Maybe. I will."

The beach reminded her of Florida. While Raoul ran to grab the Frisbee after it had been taken a short distance by the wind, she pulled out her phone and checked her messages. Her heart jumped into her throat. Madeleine had finally responded.

The message said: _Don't ever contact me again, or I'll call the police._

"What's wrong?" Raoul asked as he jogged back over to her, spinning the disk on his index finger.

"Nothing," she murmured, putting her phone back into her pocket. Well, that was telling. Someone would only become that hostile if they had a lot to hide.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's keep playing!"

She was able to hide her disappointment for the rest of the afternoon. The only point of awkwardness came when Raoul casually mentioned that she could always move in with him if money was tight. "I really enjoyed having you there, Christine. I thought we got along really well together. Didn't you? Seriously. I mean, you can tell me if I was too messy or loud…or obnoxious?" He grinned at her. "Go on. Let me have it."

She'd shifted in the passenger's seat and clutched her bottle of soda tightly. "Oh, no! You were great. I had a great time with you. I'll think about it, Raoul. It's not you. I just kind of feel the need to stay where I am right now. Familiarity is comforting."

"You don't mind being alone?" he asked.

"Do you?"

"No! I'm fine. I just thought you might be a little creeped out."

"I'm fine," she said. "Really, Raoul. You don't have to worry about me. I'll tell you if I need anything." She gave him a half-hearted smile. "Okay?"

"Sure." He gave her a sad smile back and then started talking about classes. She had a feeling that moment was significant, yet Christine wasn't ready to start thinking about certain things too deeply.

The sun was setting later with each passing day, and so she stayed out longer. She listened in the library and the study rooms of various buildings and while she walked outside between classes. Nothing except the murmurs and laughs of fellow students as they sat in the green grass, gabbing or studying.

Maybe Erik hadn't wanted her help.

Maybe he'd figured out how to destroy the thing on his own. Her brain doubted that.

Maybe he'd left and decided not to fight _it_ after all. Her heart doubted that.

Christine also had to admit that she hadn't put a lot of effort into finding him. Walking around in the dark and listening for hums were fairly passive activities. But she still didn't feel like she had much to offer Erik in terms of help.

And maybe she was also still scared. He had done some very, very frightening things. Yet she hadn't forgotten what he'd added to her life in those months last fall. The music. She'd never shared that connection with anyone. The ease of their conversation. His intelligence. Her search for him was driven by more than pity and her own need to find purpose.

Another dream arrived a couple nights later.

Lillian was still running. Everywhere she went - the train stations, restaurants, and drugstores of small country towns - the men would stare at her. Leer at her. Lillian was pretty; she'd grown more beautiful since the ritual, her hair thicker and her lips fuller. But the men's lustful stares still didn't make sense. They didn't gawk that brazenly at the other attractive women.

Lillian made it a point to keep her distance from everyone. Sometimes she would collapse to her knees and cry for hours, utterly alone with her decision. But then she always had to keep going. Alexander couldn't be far behind.

Christine awoke at five in the morning on a Friday and felt depressed for her dream companion.

She wearily checked her inbox. A professor had e-mailed her back about an assignment. "_Yes, you can turn it in, but this is the last time I'll take it late, okay?"_

Raoul sent her a message asking if she wanted to go to a movie next week. She was about to respond with a tentative yes. But then another message caught her eye, and Christine nearly fell off the couch.

From Madeleine. About six hours ago.

"_Whom exactly are you trying to help? And who are you?"_

Christine hesitated, wondering if the truth would hurt or make things better. Then she realized that there wasn't even a good way to lie. _"I'm trying to help someone named Erik. Do you know him? As for me, I'm just a college student. You can see my profile. I'm not all that interesting." _She added her cell phone number in case Maddy preferred to talk. No call came.

Although she neurotically checked her messages, Christine didn't receive another response until the next day. _"No, I don't know him."_

Despite her disappointment, Christine asked, _"But you knew Irene, right?"_

Three hours later: _"Yes. She was my aunt. She died a little over ten years ago."_

Christine replied, _"She was Erik's great aunt. So maybe Erik is like your first cousin once-removed? Or not. I always forget how the once-removed thing works. Haha." _A little humor couldn't hurt.

Madeleine didn't reply for two days, and Christine worried that the conversation had stopped. Finally, Maddy wrote, _"You really don't know?"_

"_Know what?"_

Again, Christine was treated to a long period of frustration. But she knew that if she pressed Madeleine for answers, it'd only make things worse. Maddy was clearly fearful and cautious. Christine forced herself to be patient.

She went to the movies with Raoul on Saturday, an action flick about aliens. At least some of the aliens were good, and it wasn't only fire and explosions. Just as the buff and handsome protagonist had finally discovered the location of the evil aliens, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Outside of Raoul, no one really called her these days. Thinking it might be Meg, Christine pulled it out and turned the screen toward her, trying to make sure the light didn't bother anyone else.

Incoming call from Florida. She gasped and stood, turning and running down the sticky aisle, apologizing as she tripped over someone's feet. She could feel Raoul staring after her. There was no time to explain. Christine burst through the double doors and pushed answer. "Hello?" she nearly gasped. Silence. "Hello?" she said more calmly, trying to catch her breath.

"May I please speak to Christine?" asked a soft and hesitant voice.

"This is Christine."

"Oh." A pause. "Hello."

"Can I help you?" She gripped the phone.

"This is Madeleine."

"Oh. Hi! Thank you for calling." Behind her, Christine could hear a series of explosions begin as another action sequence commenced. She moved away from the doors so that Maddy didn't think she was involved with something crazy. Finding a backless wooden bench, Christine sat down and leaned forward. Maddy hadn't responded so Christine asked, "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. Well, no, I'm not fine. Um. You have to understand this is very, very difficult to be talking about now. It's been a very long time. And for you to bring it up now—"

"I know," Christine replied. "And I'm sorry. I wouldn't have contacted you if there'd been any other way for me to begin understanding any of this."

"Exactly why do you need to understand? What are you trying to accomplish?" She sounded more tired than angry.

"A lots of things. But—" Christine swallowed. How much information was too much? "But I want to help him, if I can. And I think the more I understand about the past, the more helpful I can be."

"Is he, um…." Her voice shook. "Jesus Christ. Is he there right now? Did he tell you to find me?"

"No. I actually don't know where he is now. And he never said anything about you. I did my own research." After a long pause, she asked, "You said you didn't know him, though?"

"No."

"But you know who he is?"

"Yes."

"He's your relative?"

"Yes," Maddy nearly snapped. "Now why do you keep saying that he needs help? What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you know?" Christine asked. Maddy didn't reply, and Christine released an uncomfortable chuckle. "Well, one of us is going to have to risk sounding nuts. I guess it'll be me. He needs help because…because I don't even know how to explain it." She lowered her voice. "These last months have been terrifying. I've seen objects move without anyone touching them. Shadows that have lives of their own. I've literally floated off the ground. And heard something in my head that wasn't human." She closed her eyes. "Do you think I'm crazy now?"

"No," Maddy nearly choked out. "No, I don't think you're crazy."

She exhaled. "Then I'm glad I contacted you. Will you talk to me? Please?"

"Are these terrible things still happening to you? Because I have absolutely no idea how to stop it. So—"

"No. No, my life's very normal now. It's all gone. That's not why I contacted you. All I want is to know about the past. I won't bring you any trouble. I swear."

"I still don't trust you completely. Don't tell anyone else. I don't want anyone else knowing about any of this. I don't want to discuss it over the phone."

"What should I—"

"I will meet you halfway," she firmly interrupted. "I'll send you the details soon. I need to look at my schedule; it'll probably be a weekend. But you listen to me. If anything happens that makes me think that my family or friends or myself are in danger—then this ends. And you won't contact me again. Do you understand?"

Despite her harshness, Christine replied, "Yes. I understand completely. I know what it's like to have everything in your life disrupted by events you can't control."

"All right. Fine. As long as you understand. Like I said, I'll message you with more details."

"Thank you. So much." She nearly wept with relief.

"Have a nice evening."

"You, too."

Raoul stared up at her as she returned to her seat in the theater. Christine mouthed, "I'm sorry." He stared at her for a couple more seconds, but she didn't look at him. She still needed to come up with a lie.

The protagonist was now teaming up with the good aliens to fight the bad aliens.

She never remembered how the movie ended. Probably happily.


	26. Chapter 26

All righty. One more chapter that kind of sets the scene, and then the next one will get back to what you've been waiting for. I just started a new job and have been a little distracted, but updates should be semi-regular. Thank you for your feedback!

**Read and Review!**

"It's just kind of sudden. Random. Are you sure you don't want me to go?"

"It'd be boring for you," Christine said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. She kept blinking anyway. "Just me and an old family friend gabbing about stuff. Things about my father. I'll be back the same day."

"Well, I don't think that'd be boring." She didn't respond, focusing on a long piece of cheese that was dangling off her mall-sized slice of pizza. She and Raoul were having dinner the Wednesday before the weekend of her short trip. Christine had been pleasantly surprised by how quickly Madeleine had arranged the details by e-mail. With little evidence from books, no sign of Erik, and a lack of dreams in the last week—she only had Maddy to keep this whole mission on life support.

"Do you need a ride to and from the airport?"

"Um. Okay, thanks." She reluctantly accepted that offer, feeling guilty for using him as transportation. Still, Christine didn't want to explain why she was meeting with a relative of the man who had been the cause of his winter nightmare.

She'd found a cheap, non-refundable flight ticket online. At least that had only added another two hundred dollars to her credit card. It'd be a lot faster than a bus and stop Raoul from saying something along the lines of: "Do you know what kind of people ride those buses?"

He finally let the topic go and they talked about light-hearted things like a summer vacation in Hawaii.

After he drove her up to the front entrance of the airport that early Saturday afternoon, she leaned into kiss him. He gave her a quick peck on the lips that felt uncertain. "Be careful. Have fun," he said.

"I will, thanks! See you in a little bit!"

"Love you!"

"Love you, too!"

And then she was on her own, with only her purse and an overnight bag in case she ran into any problems coming home.

Waiting in the airport for her flight to Memphis, she nearly expected Erik to call and disrupt her trip again. That never happened. There seemed to literally be no way to draw him out. The flight was quiet, and she shared a row of three seats with only one person. They kept the middle seat between them empty and enjoyed the extra space. She drank a can of Sprite. The air was warmer and stickier down south as the city neared its storm season. Her blonde strands stuck to her cheeks. The sky was grey, and droplets of rain hit the windows.

There was something liberating about stepping off the plane by herself in a new state. Here she was on her own, free and alone. Christine checked her watch. Twenty minutes to go. They were meeting at the coffee shop in the ticket lobby. It took some time to navigate her way through the airport.

After ordering a caramel latte, she found a seat at a table away from the other customers. The cafe was still noisy as people chatted and someone constantly came over the intercom, announcing delays. Christine opened a green spiral notebook and glance down at her list of questions. Were any of them too personal?

Her stomach churned. She checked her watch again. Maddy was ten minutes late. Christine glanced at the other customers to make sure she hadn't missed her. Men in pressed business suits. A younger girl on a cell phone that looked distressed and kept gesturing into the air with her paper cup.

What if she didn't show? It'd always been a possibility. Lost money. Another dead end. No way to help _him_….

And then Christine saw her. Madeleine slowly approached the entrance, unable to see Christine sitting in the corner. They were nearly the same build, but Madeleine was maybe an inch or two taller. She was stylish, wearing a long black skirt that came down to her knees and a pair of black boots to match. A turquoise short-sleeved blouse that was looser up top and tightened toward the middle. Sunglasses on her head. Pearl earrings and a diamond wedding ring. A crimson purse that couldn't have been cheap. Her lips were pressed together as she looked around the coffee shop. She finally started to approach the girl on the phone.

Christine forced herself to stand. "Maddy?" she asked. Her mouth was parched.

Maddy turned, stared her up and down, and then nodded once. "Christine." She then approached the table as one might walk toward the electric chair.

"Did you want anything to drink?" Christine asked. She smoothed out her shirt, feeling self-conscious.

"No. I think I'm nervous enough without coffee." A pause. "Do they have alcohol?"

"Hehe. I don't think so. How was your flight?"

"It was nice," said Madeleine, still studying her. "No troubles. Yours?"

"It was good. It's been a while since I flew."

"It's getting worse every year. Security lines. No leg room."

Her head bobbed up and down. "Right."

Madeleine took a slow seat and placed her purse at her feet, then adjusted her skirt. "Well," she said, folding her hands on the table. "Well, you look nice. But I don't know what I was expecting. I saw your picture online. I don't mean to be rude-ish. I just, you know, I wasn't sure what I was going into."

Christine half-smiled. "I was thinking the same thing about you. I mean, that you look very nice."

"Thank you." Another silence. Should someone make a comment about the weather? Finally, Madeleine said, with a slightly sharper tone, "Well, you were the one who wanted to see me. So I guess you should start the questions."

"Yes," said Christine. Now that this conversation was actually happening, it took her a moment to find her voice. She fumbled with the pages in her notebook. "Yes. And thank you so much for coming. Um, I guess I want to understand some basic, uh, things. You were Irene's niece?"

"Yes."

"I'm wondering how exactly you were related to Erik? I've worked out that you could be a cousin. Or an aunt. It'd help if I could get some things straight in my head."

"Yes," said Maddy in a softer voice. She licked her lips and looked at the table. "I guess you'd want to know that."

"You seem really uncomfortable," Christine gently continued. "Did he—" Sometimes she still didn't know if she wanted the answers to these questions. But it was too late now. "Did he do something to you?" Maddy didn't respond, her eyes still cast downward. "Like scare or hurt you?"

"Yes. It hurt like hell." Christine inwardly winced until Maddy continued, "But that part was to be expected. It was the afterwards that was…." She couldn't seem to find the word.

"I don't understand."

"Well." She spoke so slowly that Christine was about ready to fall out of her seat with anticipation. She practically mouthed, "I had hit." It was like she tried to say 'it' and 'him' at the same time.

"What?"

"In 1974, I gave birth."

"To Erik?"

"Yes."

Even though Christine had her suspicions, her heart still jumped into her throat. "Oh. Wow. Gosh," she murmured, releasing a shuddery breath. Goosebumps ran up and down her bare arms. She stared into Maddy's eyes then up and down her face, searching for some sign of…recognition, maybe? There was nothing, and that made it even stranger. How could these two people ever be connected? "Thank you for letting me know. That explains some things."

"Does it?"

"But you said you didn't know him?"

"I don't."

"You gave him to Irene to raise?"

"Yes. And before you think I'm a terrible person, let me start from the beginning. Let me—Wait." She pointed an index finger at Christine and squared her shoulders. "How do you know any of this first? Let's go back to you."

"All right." Christine had prepared for this question. There was no way she was going to tell Maddy most of the story; the poor woman was frightened enough. And Christine didn't want Maddy to fear her son even more; that situation was already sad enough. "I met Erik through a strange coincidence. I worked at the library at my university. He was there looking for books about his, um, condition. He's very talented. With music. And really, really smart. Did you know that?" Maddy blinked but didn't respond. "Anyway, he helped me with my singing and schoolwork. But, over time, I began to realize that everything wasn't completely normal about him." She wrung her hands. "I thought I was crazy at first. It frightened me. But, now that I've had time to think about everything, I want to help."

"Why?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Why do I want to help?"

"Mhm."

Christine looked up. There! Finally, she saw something familiar in Maddy's intense stare. Erik had that stare. It was a heck of a lot less intimidating coming from Maddy, but there it was! "I don't know," she finally responded. "Why does anyone help anyone? Because it's right, I guess. Because this shouldn't even be happening. Because he was my—Well, I hope he still _is_ my friend."

Maddy became extra uncomfortable. She shifted and straightened her clothes again, clasped and unclasped her hands. "It's just hard for me to understand why a nice girl like you would be….Well, anyway. How much do you already know?"

"Not very much at all. I know he's well-traveled. I know he's smart. But that he's up against something that wants him to do bad things. I know he's trapped."

Again, Maddy squirmed. "Do you know about the birth? Do you know about that night?"

"No. Nothing."

"Oh. I was kind of hoping you did so that I didn't have to-" She placed her head into her hands and rubbed her temples. "I haven't talked about these things in a very long time. I spent years trying to get away from it. I have a very separate life from all of that."

"All I want to do is talk. And if there are some things that you don't want to tell me, that's fine."

"I've blocked some things. But I'll try. Let's start with something happier, okay?" Christine nodded. "So I was raised by my aunt. My mother, Angela, died giving birth to me." Christine flinched in recognition.

"_She does not have to be like poor, stupid Angela—who thought she could escape our little arrangement."_

Madeleine told Christine of a happy childhood in the countryside with her aunt. She even took out some black and white photographs, one of them having a picnic beneath a tree and one with Maddy sitting on Irene's lap in a 1960's living room. Christine easily recognized them from the thing's memories. Maddy went on a little too long, obviously reluctant to go to the bad parts. Finally, her expression grew grim, and she said, "But there was always something else there with us."

"Something supernatural?"

"Yes. But it was very subtle back then. Barely there. When I was really young, it was like an imaginary friend." She folded her arms against her chest as though it were cold. "Sometimes it would just say harmless things like, 'You look pretty today, Maddy!' or 'Can I have a picnic with you?'" Christine felt a chill run through her. "And then sometimes it would say things that just weren't right. When I was about seven, I was having a tea party with my dolls. And this voice in my head whispered, 'Such lovely babies, little Madeleine. Someday you will give me a real one.'" She closed her eyes. "Irene assumed I stopped playing with dolls because I was growing up."

"That's horrifying," said Christine.

"But you aren't looking at me like I'm a few cherries short of a fruit salad."

"Like I told you on the phone, I've seen some things I'll never forget. I've heard that voice."

Maddy softly continued, "As I got older, I kind of learned to ignore it. But it was always there, and I think Irene could feel it, too. If a pot fell out of the cabinet or a door slammed, we would joke about it being the ghost. And yet it didn't really affect anything until - Ugh! This is so embarrassing to talk about. I know it'll sound like I was just another hormonal teenager during the times of free love and all that."

"It's all right," said Christine. "I'm not judging anyone."

"It was my first semester of college, and I was at one of my first real parties. I met this boy." She ran a hand through her curly bangs. "He was smart and good-looking, interesting to talk to. One thing led to another. The thing is, I barely remember it. Not because I was drunk or high. But it was like I didn't have complete control of myself. And I wasn't normally like that. My husband laughs at me because I'm so structured." She paused, her index finger leaning against her jaw. "I remember the awkward next morning. We both stared at each other like we couldn't believe it had even happened. We said goodbye. And I got pregnant right away. God, I still remember the look of disappointment on Irene's face."

While Maddy obviously felt humiliated by the whole ordeal, Christine was only pondering the fact that Erik had a biological mother and father.

After taking a deep breath and glancing to the side for several unnerving seconds, Maddy told Christine about her pregnancy, about always feeling like she was under the thing's protection. And then she arrived at the night of Erik's birth. Her face became white as she offered her memories- helplessly lying on the kitchen floor as shadows swirled over her. The lights went off. Irene at first believed the baby to be dead. The thing told Madeleine she was no longer needed. Christine could practically hear the screams and feel the evil in the air. "So," Maddy whispered. "You can see why I had to leave. You can see why I never went back."

"I do see," she murmured. "And I'm so sorry." Christine could also see how clearly Erik was doomed from birth. It was really a wonder that there was any humanity remaining at all. "Do you know what happened afterwards? Irene was with Erik for some time, right?"

"I didn't want to know. I begged her to come with me, but she refused. So I left by myself. And I never asked what was happening. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. But…." She shook her head. "Irene nearly died, you know? I mean, before her time. She was nearly killed."

"How?"

"Her house caught fire. The place where I grew up burned to the ground. And I know it wasn't an accident."

Christine remembered the burning cabin. "Did—did Irene say how it happened?"

"Not in detail. But, whatever happened, that horrible thing was finally gone after that night. She came to live with me. And we were finally alone." She described a bit of their lives afterwards, her marriage and their happy time in Florida. "And that was that. We were finally free."

"Yes,_ you_ definitely were..."

Is there else anything you want to know?"

"Well." Christine glanced at the notes she had taken during their meeting. "This may seem like a weird question. But did you ever see a picture of your father?"

"A few times. There was an old photograph of my parents on their wedding day; it was lost in the fire. His name was Jeffrey. I don't know much about him except that Irene said he seemed nice enough. And that he, well, killed himself. I don't know the reason. My family tree has a lot of weird branches."

"Do you think you resembled him at all?"

"It's been so long since I saw that picture. But I guess a little bit. Why?"

"I'm just making sure I understand how everyone's related." Christine didn't want to admit to Maddy that she'd actually wondered if Maddy was the offspring of the thing. "What happened to Erik's father?"

Maddy shrugged. "Last I heard, he was happily married with a couple of kids. And he won't ever find out about all this." She eyed Christine. "You understand, right? What would I say? I didn't tell you that I got pregnant after our bizarre rendezvous forty years ago. Not only that, I gave birth to a demon. But don't worry—that part wasn't your fault." She grimaced. "Yes, that would go over well."

Christine shifted. "Of course I won't try to find him or tell him. I understand. But, Maddy, I think you should know that—" Christine smiled and leaned forward. "You didn't give birth to a demon. You gave birth to a baby, and a demon attached itself to him. They're separate beings—"

"Stop." Maddy put up a hand.

"But it's the truth. You should know. He's not _it_. He's—"

"Stop it!"

"I thought you'd feel better knowing that Erik's-"

"_Stop! Stop!" _Maddy cried out, raising both hands and turning her head. "If you keep saying that, I'm done talking to you, understand? I will leave."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning back in retreat. "I'm sorry."

Christine finally understood. She had thought that Maddy felt guilty because of the belief that she'd given birth to an actual demon and released an evil upon the world. But now Christine grasped the truth.

It was easier for Madeleine to think of Erik as a demon. If Maddy could convince herself that she had simply escaped a monster, she could handle the past. And the guilt. But for her to acknowledge that she had abandoned a human child to a demon - she couldn't face that. _That_ was too much pain. And that was why Maddy didn't ask more about Erik. That was why she didn't want to know how he was doing.

Christine withdrew. And stopped trying to make things right. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "All right. Let's go back to something else. Um. Do you know any more about Angela?"

Maddy's arms finally settled back down on the table. She took a breath and shook her head. "No. Irene wasn't all that close with her in the end. From what I understand, few people were close with her during the last years of her life. I don't think my mother was completely mentally stable. Although after everything that's happened, who knows what she was up against?"

"Have you ever heard of Lillian?"

"Lillian who?"

Christine shrugged. "All I have is Lillian."

"Hm. No. That name doesn't ring any - Well, wait." She squinted. "Something about it sounds a little familiar. Why?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just trying to connect some dots."

"Well, I'll let you know if I remember—Oh. Now I do." Christine eagerly leaned in, heart pounding with anticipation. "Maybe. It's still not really much."

"Please."

"Well, one time Irene took me to visit Angela's grave. I was only about nine. I remember skipping around the cemetery. And Irene scolding me, saying I wasn't being very respectful of the dead. Of course, I didn't listen to her. And then I fell into the mud. I looked down to see what I'd tripped on. And there was this little stone. Like a poor man's grave. You could barely read the writing on it. But it wasn't all that old."

"What'd it say?"

"It just said: _Here lies Lillian. May one of us finally know peace._" Maddy paused. "It's probably not important, right? Anyway, that's all I remember."

But it was important. Lillian was buried near Angela. They had probably met. Had Alexander found them? Or had Lillian tricked her? Did that mean the whole ritual wasn't always binding? _Oh, if only…._

Maddy was staring at her, waiting. She'd have to think about this later. "How about Reverend Mansart? Is he still alive?"

"I doubt it, but it wouldn't be impossible. He'd be eighty-five. Ninety. No idea where he went."

"Right. And no one else was ever involved?"

"Not that I know of." They both sat in silence for a moment, glancing at the other customers. Maddy finally asked, "Is there anything else?"

Christine's stomach churned nervously. "There is one more thing. But it's more for me."

"Yes?"

"I think that about twenty years ago, my mother tried to talk to you. About some of these things. I mean, she got in trouble for it."

"What?" Maddy's mouth fell open. "I thought you looked a little familiar. Oh my God! You're _her _daughter?!"

"Yes. And it's all right. I understand that whatever happened, you know, it was hard for everyone."

"What happened to your mother?" asked Maddy, drawing back.

"She died. About ten years ago. But—"

"I'm sorry. How?"

"I still don't know everything. Except that she wasn't well in a lot of ways. She died in an institution."

"Oh, no! She appeared at the house one day and started to follow us whenever we went outside. And she started asking where _he_ was. Over and over. I was terrified that she might have something to do with that-that thing. My husband doesn't know about any of this. He just thought she was an unstable homeless person, and I let him call the police. I didn't know what to do."

"I understand why. It must have been really upsetting."

"But, Christine, I visited her once before they took her away." Christine sharply glanced up. "I told the police that I wanted to make sure I didn't know her. I didn't tell Peter I went. Or Irene."

"What'd she say?" Christine whispered. "What'd she want?"

"She asked where the—" Maddy visibly swallowed. "Where he was. I told her that I didn't know. I didn't! I asked her what she wanted and why she was harassing us, but all she would say is that no one would let her do her job. She said that she might be able to put an end to it. But that the longer this went on, the less inner strength she'd have to make the better choice. Something strange like that. Does that make any sense to you?"

"No," said Christine. "Not at all."

"Me neither. I tried to get more out of her, but she pretty much ignored me at that point. I didn't want to deal with it anymore. I left. But I didn't mean to ruin her life."

"You didn't," said Christine as she wrote down her mother's words. "My dad was the one who made sure she stayed locked up. He didn't understand."

"And I still don't understand! Is that how you got involved? Your mother? Did she tell you things?"

"No. I barely remember her."

Maddy's forehead crinkled. "It can't just be a coincidence that you're both involved."

Christine crossed and uncrossed her legs. She hesitantly replied, "I told you I was an uninteresting college student. And I am…for the most part. But, lately, I've discovered that I might be a little not normal sometimes. And I think my mother was, too." She cast a quick glance toward Maddy to make sure she wasn't about to run away. "But I promise that I'm not a bad kind of not normal. All I want to do is get rid of that thing."

"No, I've been in the room with evil," murmured Maddy. "I've felt evil. I know you're not evil." She sighed. "Still, I want it all to go away. I don't want to involve myself."

"I understand." After a second, she asked, "Why'd you agree to come today? You didn't have to."

"Oh. Well, there were lots of reasons. Curiosity, I guess. And then I didn't want you to come down there and start asking questions. Not with Peter there. And then. Um. Irene."

"Irene?"

Maddy glanced off to the side for a moment. "My husband has a brother. And he had two boys. So I got to be an aunt to them." For the first time since Christine had seen her, Maddy's face genuinely lit up. "They're growing up now, out of college and getting married. They're good boys. Anyway, they used to come over when they were little. Family gatherings and holidays. Irene would be with us sometimes, especially at Christmas." She quickly pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. "Sorry. It's just…. Well, Irene would always watch them play with this sad look on her face. And I _knew_ what she was thinking about. I never had the courage to say anything to her. Even to comfort her. And then at the end of her life she finally asked what had happened to…. She wanted him to know she was sorry. And then she was gone."

"I see."

"So. I guess I thought coming today was a way to—" She spread out her hands.

"Resolve things a little bit?" Christine offered.

"Yes. I guess so. It's always been there. Too horrible to think about or forget."

Christine brushed a single tear off her cheek. "It is."

"What are you going to do now?" Maddy asked.

"I don't know yet. Right now, I just want answers. And you've given me some. Thank you."

"It probably wasn't that much help—"

"But it was." She took a shuddery breath. "I've seen a lot of terrible things in the last months. Sometimes I just want to forget it all, too. To give up and go back to normal. But finally, through you, I've gotten to know the…the human side of all of it. It makes things so much clearer."

"Good." Christine started to look down, but Maddy suddenly grabbed her lower arm. Christine started as Maddy lowered her voice and spoke almost harshly, "Listen to me, though. _It_ almost killed Irene. All because she wanted to help. And I know you want to help. You seem very sweet. And you're very young. But you have to know what you're dealing with. So you be very, very careful, okay?"

After overcoming her surprise, she replied, "I will. I've seen what it can do."

Maddy nodded and exhaled, finally releasing her arm. "You won't contact me again?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"That's probably for the best. I mean, if I can answer more questions, I will. But that's all I'll do."

"I know. Thank you."

"Well, I guess I'll head off. I wonder how bad the food around here is." She slowly began to stand and pick up her purse with a shaking hand. Her face was still pale, and she looked a little older than she had hours ago.

Christine stood as well. "Thank you again for coming." She held out a hand.

Maddy took her hand and squeezed it once. "You're welcome. You take care." She started to leave. Christine sat back down. Then Maddy paused and, without turning around, asked, "Um, are you going to tell…that Irene said she was sorry?"

"Do you want me to?"

Christine could barely hear her reply. "Yes."

"Then I will tell him."

Maddy nodded. With a deep breath, she threw her shoulders back and joined the throngs of ordinary people.

Christine sat there for some time afterwards, staring into her empty paper cup.


	27. Chapter 27

**Here we go. A nice long chapter that I hope you will enjoy. Thank you to all who continue to read, review, and favorite! And Happy Halloween! I think this story is in season :)**

Finally, he rose out of the coffin. _It_ was somewhat weakened. And he'd never planned for that little hole to be his final resting place.

That brought up a pertinent question, though. Where would his forty year deathbed be? Wherever it was, he should really obtain one of those ridiculous motivational posters to stick on the ceiling.

Appendages Falling Off? Lost All Your Teeth? Don't Give Up! You Can Do It!

That was still the end game, wasn't it? After everything, he was right back at where he had begun. Three options. Find some poor girl and finish the final act. Or kill enough people to stay semi-functional, feed it. Or chain himself to a wall and rot.

He knew that the second option would eventually cease to exist. The thing would demand the ritual or nothing.

In any case, he didn't feel ready to do any of them yet. So he simply walked the soggy streets. The thing lifted the pain from his soles.

"_Very good, Erik. Very good. I am magnanimous and will forgive you for your failures. It is time to begin anew."_

The air was warmer at night, sending the less desired members of society out of shelters and onto the streets. He could smell cigarette smoke and marijuana. Male teenagers holding cans of beer sauntered past him, laughing at pornographic pictures on a smartphone. One of them glanced at him. "Nice mask, dude. You gonna rob the 7-11? Careful. They keep a gun behind the counter. My dumbass cousin found that out the hard way." This brought more laughter as they disappeared around the corner.

No one looked at his disintegrating appearance for too long. They all had more important problems to worry about than a freak in a mask.

The thing quickly directed his attention to the female population.

"_Choose any of them. You have delayed long enough, my ugly friend. We will have to select from the more despairing and pathetic members of society. These women will not even care, Erik. Look at them!"_

He did. The stumbling addicts. The tired-eyed prostitutes. Women with five screaming, messy children and no way to support them.

"_I will make you a deal, Erik. Choose one of them. A pretty one who still has all her teeth, m? I will give you an adequate face for a single night. Have your fun. Obtain your release so that you can get over that little blonde idiot. And then free us both. Free us, Erik. Only you have the power to do so, my friend."_

His clothes were beginning to tear, and he was starting to smell of damp dirt again. Yes, he was quite the Casanova.

"_Look at yourself. You should be a king. Don't you remember how much power Alexander had in the end? Just give me what I want. We have so much to do. History awaits us! Finish this!"_

But he wasn't really listening to _it._ He was merely stumbling along and trying to find some sense of direction. He was trying to find a solution that didn't exist. The streetlights blurred into squiggly yellow lines, and the mumbled voices around him sounded like the whir of a fan.

He told himself that he took the next action merely for a rush, a wake-up. A way to clear the cobwebs of the last months from his mind. Finding a fixed steel ladder that was likely used for maintenance purposes, he began to climb up the side of a brick building. Reaching a flat surface, he easily pulled himself over ledges, higher and higher, past darkened windows. Dirt and dust clung to his clothing. The disgusting evidence of birds was everywhere. Still, he pulled himself to a decent height.

"_Erik, what the hell are you doing?"_

He stared over the ledge, at the lights and small figures below. A crescent moon hung over head. He backed up several feet to get a good jump. And then he hurled himself off. And he was human enough to feel the rush of adrenaline and endorphins. The gust of warm air against his skin. A plunge in his stomach and a pause in his heartbeat.

Another voice in his head that did not belong to the thing. _There-there has to be a reason why I can see it._

The ground neared, the damp streets of an alleyway, littered with aluminum cans and plastic bottles. Just before he struck the pavement and splattered into a mess of blood and intestines, he paused in midair. He hovered for a moment, frozen in space and untouched by gravity. And then softly landed on his feet like a hideous feline.

He'd done this before. Worse, actually. Dove off a mountainside. Allowed people to shoot at him until their guns emptied. It was a cheap thrill, and he took what he could get.

But, this time, perhaps the jump had been a way to prove to himself that there were no other choices. The two options remained.

"Sir? Sir, did you just fall off that building? I swore you did. You okay? You need an ambulance?" He glanced over his shoulder. A brunette in a lime green waitressing uniform was staring at him, a brown sack under her arms. She had a soft southern accent. Tired eyes and torn nylons.

Damn it. He had hoped no one would see.

"_Take her, Erik! Tell her what you can do for her!" _The thing was clearly starting to panic.

He couldn't do it. Without a word, he left her there. She could convince herself that she'd been working too many late shifts.

_Maybe there's a reason I heard you in the library. Maybe we were meant to meet! _Her words echoed in his mind, taunting him even as he tried to ignore them.

He was far too intelligent, experienced, and cynical to believe in hope by this point.

But, still, she had given him an invitation to see her again. Foolish girl. Foolish wonderful girl. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, he had only remained in that location because of her last words to him.

It was always possible that she made the offer in fear, as a final way to appease him. Maybe she had left the state and eloped with the boy. Then built an electric fence around their upper class home in the suburbs—as though that would be enough to keep Erik out.

Then what would he do? Another useless exorcism? Another failed suicide attempt?

Fortunately, he was spared making an immediate decision. She hadn't gone anywhere. She was more easily found than ever.

He still feared that the mere sight of her would send him off the deep end. He was mentally sick when it came to her. Insane when it came to her. Still, when he saw her for the first time in a couple of months, he didn't lose his mind. The familiar feelings of warmth and longing and need hit him.

"_Erik! This is enough! You cannot have that one!" _Unnatural pain shot through his side as the thing punished him, but he did not care.

This continued for a couple of nights. Until he got too close. She was on her phone, and he had wanted to hear her lovely voice.

"No, I don't know the author," she said with a touch of frustration. "It was written like three hundred years ago. I mean, how many books would be titled that? If you don't have it, that's fine. I just—_Wait. _Hold on!" Her head shot up. She dropped her phone to her side and looked around. He didn't stay long enough to find out whether she would run away from him or toward him. He raced back to his coffin and slammed the lid closed.

"_You are a disgusting, confused, wretched walking disaster."_

_It _was certainly right about that. Shame overcame him. She inspired dozens of different emotions in him, but it was the burning shame that made him hide away. For what he had done to her and put her through. For what he looked like now. For what he was and would never be. How could he ever face her again?

He was never sure what would have happened if his angel hadn't acted.

But it was better that way. Her choice now. Not his.

She knew how to draw him out. She'd always known.

* * *

><p>Her visit with Madeleine had given her even more resolve. Understanding Erik's origins made it even clearer how trapped he really was. Christine still didn't know what her plan of action would be, although there were a couple more leads she could follow.<p>

But, first, she needed to talk to Erik.

And she knew that, if anything would draw him out, it'd be the chance to hear her sing.

At first, she feared that he'd completely left the state.

In that case, she was going to have to put a lot of effort into advertising. She could use her social networking page, which was usually pretty empty of updates. Maybe she'd start her own blog. Self-promotion was not one of her strengths. If that didn't work, what next? Would she wander the world like her poor mother in a fruitless search?

But then, for the first time in many weeks, Christine heard him. While trying to order a rare book from someone in Poland who barely spoke English. A chill traveled up her spine as that soft humming tickled her ears. She'd called his name, but the sound had quickly faded.

There was no catching up to him, but she'd smiled. Because she could tell that _it_ had weakened. As she'd be working to fight this thing, so had Erik. Maybe they could be on the same team now.

So it was time to put her plan into place-

"Well, it's a little late to include you, Christine. We've already got the spring concert all planned." Ian scratched his head and stared down at her, obviously trying not to appear too annoyed over the fact that she'd burst into his office at 8 AM.

"I know. But couldn't you stick me in somewhere?"

"Can't it wait until the fall? I promise we'll get you in then. This is just so last minute."

"No. That doesn't work. Because—" She made up a lie that made her cheeks turn pink. But desperate times called for desperate measures and all that. "My grandma is very sick, and she can come this time. And she wants to hear me sing. She doesn't have much longer." Light waterworks. Check. "It can't wait till next fall."

"Oh, Christine. I'm sorry to hear that. Oh sure. I'll contact Bernard and fit you in somewhere. It might be the end. Might be the beginning."

"Beginning would be fantastic. That way she can leave if she gets too tired."

"You're ready to go, huh?" He smiled warmly, and she felt really guilty.

"It would mean the world to me. I'm so sorry for the late notice."

"No worries. You've had a rough time of it. Hey, I have to run to a meeting. We're fighting with the Provost over finally getting the funding for a decent building. But I'll let you know when you'll be singing that night, okay?"

"Thank you." She released a sigh of relief as she stepped out of his office and closed the door. Step one—_check._

For her willingness to act, she was rewarded with a new series of dreams.

Lillian gazed over the main road of a small town. The outside of the community was directly from a storybook with spotted cows along the sides of dirt roads, freshly painted picket fences, orchards, and boys in jean overalls and girls in checkered dresses. Where people knew each other but also kept close to family. She'd managed to find the business district, but all the stores were closed. It was a Sunday morning, and everyone was at the little church that sat a few miles south. Lillian knew she didn't belong there.

She glanced down at her torn stockings and dirty dress. Well, she'd have to wait a day for the stores to open. _Am I far away enough? Can I finally rest for a little while?_

In Christine's next dream-

On the outside of the town, away from the growing neighborhoods, a widowed woman who kept her hair in a tight grey bun was renting out one of her upstairs bedrooms. It was a cute wooden home built in the early 1900's, two stories and painted midnight blue with black trim. Several blossoming fruit trees and a flower garden decorated the sides. "What are you doing around these parts by yourself?" the woman asked, looking her up and down. Lillian had managed to find new clothes by that point, but there was still a haggardness to her appearance. "Don't you have any family? Or did they bring you here to teach?"

"Teach," she lied. "Eventually."

"All right then. But no gentleman visitors here, you understand?"

"Yes. You don't have to worry about that." The woman, Mrs. Mildred Manchester, seemed to sense something was off but didn't pry. She needed the money. After a hurried tour of the home, Lillian went into her room and collapsed facedown onto a lilac quilt. She was utterly exhausted. And desperate to feel safe for even a moment.

Unfortunately, it was impossible for her to avoid men forever. The milkman and the post officer came by during the week, and Mrs. Manchester cheerfully chatted with them, unaware of the danger. Lillian stayed in her room. A week passed. Two weeks. Lillian knew she needed to keep moving. Alexander had to be close. But she'd finally found a bit of comfort.

One day, as Lillian made her way downstairs in search of lunch, she heard Mildred call to her. "Lillian! Come meet someone." She then heard Mildred mutter, "Such a strange little thing. She makes me uncomfortable."

Lillian poked her head into the kitchen. Her heart jumped. There was a man of around sixty or so, his grey hair thinning on top. He was clean-shaved and wearing a pressed navy blue suit and red tie. He smiled, but she could see that disturbing glint immediately enter his eyes. He blinked hard as though to force his thoughts away. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Lillian, this was my husband's favorite little brother, Harold. He stopped by to visit me. He's done lots with the railroads, making sure they're not all falling apart on us."

"It's nice to meet you," she murmured, keeping her eyes cast downward. "How long will you be staying?"

"Just a night. Then I have to keep going."

"No, you'll never settle down, will you?" Mildred said with a teasing tone, utterly unware. "I have a grandniece who's just like you. Never going to find a husband or settle down. Some folks. You can't do anything with them!"

"No, ma'am," he agreed, still trying to tear his gaze off Lillian. "Can't do anything with us."

Lillian excused herself and stayed upstairs the rest of the day. Harold slept in the downstairs bedroom that Mildred kept for personal guests. Right before bed, Lillian crept down into the kitchen and grabbed one of Mildred's larger slicing knives. The entire night, she clutched to the wooden handle, wide awake and with her eyes on the door. She should leave.

Finally, morning broke. Soft light filtered through the translucent yellow curtains. Her heart calmed. She needed to use the bathroom, and it was just down the hallway. She hadn't bothered to put on her nightgown, always ready to flee, but the wrinkled dress she wore didn't have big enough pockets for the knife. What if she ran into Mildred upstairs? How would she explain that?

Lillian left her knife beneath the pillow. She slowly opened the door and looked both ways. Safe. With a deep breath, she ran to the bathroom and closed the door, locking it. After five minutes, during which she also splashed cold water onto her face, Lillian emerged. She headed back to her room, eager for Mildred to inform her that Harold had left. She was starting to feel like a tiger in a cage.

A large hand fell onto her shoulder. With a yelp, she turned around to see him. His eyes. Like all the other eyes of men since that last night with Alexander.

"Please leave me alone," she whispered, backing away and into the wall. "Please."

"All I want is to love to you," he said in a shaky whisper. "I've never wanted anything so much in my entire life. Ever since I saw you…I don't understand it. But please. Just once. I'll give you anything. All my money. Please let me love you. I'll be so gentle…."

"Get away!" Pushing past him, she started to run to her room but knew she'd be too late to slam the door in his face. And then she'd be trapped in the worst possible place. Lillian raced down the stairs, nearly falling over a loose piece of carpet. She never looked back to see if he followed. Finally, she made it outside. The sun was just beginning to rise. The dewy grass soaked her bare feet. She ran toward the apple trees and hid in a cluster of them.

The thing couldn't directly impregnate her. But _it_ could make her nearly irresistible to men. _It_ could make her life a living hell. Lillian's monthly cycle was also nonexistent. She was constantly fertile. Her body was no longer familiar to her.

Tears fell from her eyes. She couldn't leave all her belongings there. Her money and clothing and a few beloved trinkets from her childhood. Photographs. So she stayed nearby, waiting for Harold to finally depart. She ate a few apples directly from the tree. Morning turned to a warm afternoon. Had he left through a different exit? Mildred had to be awake by now, and that offered some protection, didn't it?

She slowly approached the house and heard Mildred talking to someone in the kitchen. "I don't know where that girl went. But I don't like having her here. Got something to hide if you ask me."

Lillian assumed she was speaking to Harold and prepared to turn back around. Until a pretty female voice replied, "Well, where's she from?"

"I don't know. Don't know much about her to be honest. But she gives me a funny feeling. And Harold - he ran out real fast this morning, saying he felt the Devil in him here. What do you make of that?"

"I don't know. Probably just doesn't want to stay in one place too long. Some men are like that."

Lillian glanced into the kitchen. There was a girl around her own age, her long black curls tied back with a red ribbon. Her eyes were darker, and her skin was slightly tanned. She wore a white sundress with red roses. She was very pretty. They both turned and stared at her.

Mildred blinked. "Well, there you are. I woke up to find you gone and Harold rushing out."

"I'm fine," said Lillian. "I just wanted some fresh air."

"All right, then." Mildred shrugged. "This is one of my grandnieces, Angela. She came out here to help out after my husband died. And then she went and got herself engaged to the former mayor's grandson, didn't you, young lady?" Angela beamed. "She's back from visiting her sister. How is Irene?"

"A little lonely since mom and dad passed away. But she's strong. She'll be okay."

"Irene was always like that. I hope she finds herself a husband soon."

"Oh, when pigs fly!"

They chuckled. And then Mildred glanced at Lillian again. "Well? Is there something you need?"

"We were just going to have some apple pie," said Angela. "Have you ever had her pie?"

"N-no."

"Oh, well you'll have to have some then. It's won blue ribbons at the state fair. Right, Aunt Mildred?"

"Right." After giving Lillian another glance, she started to pull out another plate from the cabinet.

Lillian hesitated. She should tell them that she had to go. While it was still light. While there was still time. But there was suddenly irresistible warmth in that kitchen. Angela smiled and gestured her over. "You have to at least try it! It's not going to poison you."

"Unless I baked it while in a bad mood," joked Mildred.

Lillian took a slow seat at the table and folded her hands in her lap.

"Tell us about yourself. Why are you here all alone?" asked Angela, leaning forward with her chin in her hand.

"Well. Everyone I know died," she lied. "I mean, my close family. I don't have anyone." She remembered her other lie to Mildred and quickly added, "So I came to teach maybe."

"I'm so sorry. Well, we'll figure something out for you. Goodness. No one should be all alone…."

Christine woke up as Lillian bit into a piece of warm pie. So there it was. The first meeting. Whatever happened next, Lillian certainly hadn't sought out Angela as a victim. And nothing seemed abnormal about Angela. She looked a lot like Maddy, actually. Except, still untouched by darkness, Angela was open and unafraid.

Christine was desperately searching for loopholes, for something that made the entire bargain invalid. She was eager to continue these dreams.

But first—Erik.

"Hey! I saw you were singing!" said Raoul as they met for lunch one day.

Everyone had. Her harmless and over-perky status update: _Can't wait for the concert on Tuesday night! I hope my main musical inspirations are all there! :)_

Raoul had commented: _I'll be there!_

And Meg: _Wish I could be there. I know you'll do well._

At least Meg was talking to her again. Kind of.

Raoul continued the conversation. "So yeah. I'll be there. Did you need a ride?"

"Oh, you don't have to come." She glanced down as she took a bite of a crispy chicken sandwich. "Same song as last time."

He looked hurt. "You know I like to hear you sing."

"Oh, thanks. I mean, I want you to come. Sure. But, afterwards, I may have to rush off." Her heart thudded. "Some, um, of the other girls in the program wanted to have dinner."

"That's great!"

"It is?" She glanced at him in surprise.

"Yeah, I'm glad you're making friends," he replied. "Especially since, you know, Meg left…you've been kind of isolated."

"Oh. I'm sorry. It's been—"

"Don't be sorry! I've just been concerned about you. I'm glad you're meeting people."

"Thanks." Before they parted that day, she hugged him tightly. He couldn't see her face and the grimace of pain. Because she knew these coming days were going to pull them farther apart. The juggling act was going to be so hard.

"You okay?" he asked, drawing back and touching her cheek.

"Yeah." She gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. "I'll see you later."

She spent most of that weekend desperately combing over books for final answers. She had one more dream, but it was short and unhelpful. Angela and Lillian were at a hardware store, searching for some tools for Mildred. A tentative friendship had formed between them. Lillian felt safer going out in broad daylight with Angela.

At one point, Angela glanced up from a bin of nails. "I think those men over there have their eye on you. Gosh. Talk about shameless. I should have Mildred give them a talking to in church next Sunday."

"Please don't. It wouldn't matter." Lillian huddled down as though trying to make herself smaller. "They'll watch me no matter what."

"You're so modest, Lillian. Anyway, I'll try not to get too jealous," she teased.

"You'll never understand." Lillian quickly walked away, leaving a bewildered Angela staring after her.

Christine woke up with her stomach in a knot. She could feel something approaching both girls. There was nowhere on Earth that Lillian was safe.

Her concert was that day. She hadn't practiced nearly enough, but this wasn't about being good. In fact, maybe Erik would be so horrified by her performance that he'd insist on giving her lessons again. There was a part of her that still craved that simple friendship between them. It had been so uncomplicated. But another part of her was ready to march forward into the unknown.

Before the concert, she was given one last dose of guilt.

"We'll begin with Christine Daae, who you may remember from the previous semester. And who would like to dedicate this song to her grandmother. Let's give Christine and her wonderful grandmother a big hand." Applause followed. People smiled at her.

Her midnight blue dress came down to her knees and the straps fell loosely down the sides of her arms. She'd shown a little more skin. She'd gone all out.

And it worked.

She heard the humming as soon as she reached the microphone. Still, she made no move to acknowledge the sound. She had to draw him in. She had to force his guard down. Let him get closer and closer. And then she would pounce.

The pianist began to play. After taking a breath, she sang. The soft humming continued, closer now, but Christine tried not to let it distract her. Then the lights flickered, casting dancing shadows over the ceilings and audience. Some people chuckled. But she kept singing, raising her head higher.

The music sheets were swept off the piano by a gust of cold wind. The pianist started but continued with few mistakes, subtly nodding at her to continue. Women grabbed their hair as the breeze blew.

Christine continued defiantly, casting one glance upward to make sure that no one could be injured by anything falling. There were lights and beams, but they were secured to the ceiling. The thing was no longer strong enough to cause severe damage.

Just strong enough to be really annoying.

After shaking and vibrating for several seconds, her microphone fell over with a clatter. It squealed as it hit the ground, and she finally stopped singing. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

"Did someone forget to close a window?" she heard a man mutter behind her. "What the hell is going on?"

She could hear Erik begin to run away in her head. Christine jumped off the stage, landing hard enough to send a twinge of pain through her knee, and followed the sound. Ian called after her, probably thinking she was embarrassed. Raoul grabbed her arm as she rushed down the aisle. "Christine? Are you—"

"I'm fine! I'll be fine. I have to go! Call you later!" She pulled away and ran down the center aisle. Out of the auditorium and into the night.

He was not going to get away this time.

"Erik!" she screamed, not caring that about twenty other people turned to stare at her. "Erik! Stop!"

He slowed. Already out of breath, she followed the humming. _I need more exercise._ Her heart pounded as she neared him. Between darkened campus buildings and groups of students. Was this really going to happen?

The humming was louder, but she almost missed seeing him. He was near the edge of a concrete stairwell that led to the basement of an older building. Only his yellow eyes differentiated him from the statues, lamps, and other small structures. All she could see was a frozen dark form. But his posture and the way he was turned away and his hunched shoulders—everything about him said: _Don't hurt me._

"Erik—"

"No."

"No? What do you-?"

"Stay back. _It_ is very angry."

Sensing an increase in shadows and coldness, Christine obeyed but continued, "I wanted to—"

"You knew I could not resist coming to hear you!" he exclaimed as though she would yell at him. "That was all I wanted."

"Of course I knew! Or, at least, I hoped! I sang for you."

"I thought it was for your grandmother." His tone led her to think that he hadn't really believed this.

"Both my grandmothers are long deceased."

"In any case, I ruined the performance. I cannot even go near you without destroying things."

"You didn't. _It_ did. But none of that matters. I accomplished what I wanted to." She paused. "I'm glad you're still here."

He turned away, as though debating whether to race down the concrete stairs. "Why did you do this?"

"Don't you remember what I last said to you?" He didn't reply. She continued before he could leave her. "Erik, I've learned so much these last weeks. And I'm still learning. I've been dreaming, too."

"Dreaming?"

"Of the past. I think that the thing accidentally gave me some of its memories. And I've been dreaming of Lillian."

"Who is that?"

"I don't know yet. I guess you don't either. Anyway, she's met Angela. Your grandmother, right?"

"Yes," he sickly whispered.

"Angela. And Lillian. And Alexander. It's his fault, isn't it? I think I'm close to learning—"

"Alexan-Dear God," he rasped. "I have infected you. With all of that-that hellish fiasco. And now you are forced to dream of it? And think of it?"

"What? That's not what I meant to-"

"Don't you understand?" He thrust his gloved hands forward. "All I wanted was to be normal for you. Not a grotesque stain on your life. As unforgivably horrible as I was to you, that was the point of the entire nightmare. To be normal!"

"Well…" She swallowed. "Wouldn't real normal be getting rid of _it_? And, anyway, I've never been completely normal either. I spent almost half my life thinking I was mentally ill. When you…when you took Meg, my friends were about to take me to an institution. And I was ready to let them. But now I know I'm not crazy. And as terrifying as all of it was, I'm so happy to know that. And if my weird ability helps you, too, that's all the better. I want—"

"_What_ do you want?"

"I want you to tell me everything that you know. And then we're going to think of a way to—"

"Rid me of _it_?" he coldly asked.

"Don't you want _it _gone?" She'd never considered the darker alternative.

"Of course I do! And do you think that I have not tried? I have searched science. I have gone through multiple exorcisms. And _persuaded_ multiple religious figures into giving me answers. I physically cannot even kill myself, Christine. There is no way out of this. I will not lie to you any longer about what I am and will always be."

She felt a sharp pain at one of those confessions. And his words were discouraging. Still, what had she expected? Of course he had already tried to find answers. Of course he thought she was ridiculous. "I can't even imagine, Erik. And I won't pretend that I understand all of it yet. Not even close." She hesitated and then asked, "But have you ever met anyone like me? Who could hear it and see it?"

"No," he softly admitted. "I have never met anyone like you. I never will."

"Then will you at least talk to me? Please? It will be different, now that I understand."

Again, he glanced toward the stairs. The unnatural cold wind brushed her face and clothing, making her shiver. In a low voice, he asked, "What if the only reason I agree to this is simply to see you a few more times? And not because I believe you can help. I do not even know why you want to help me, and I do not care. Does that truth frighten you? That I only want to see you? That nothing else matters to me but that?"

She had come to him that night with only one major condition. "Do you promise that my friends and the people in this town will be safe?"

"You understand that, the longer I go without feeding it, the more repulsive I become?"

"You're weakening it. That's not repulsive. And you are not repulsive. I'm thrilled that you're fighting it."

He sighed and shrugged. "They will be safe."

She shakily nodded. "Then we'll meet again. And you don't have to believe me yet. Just talk to me." She started to walk toward him.

"Stop!" he snapped. "I will talk to you at a distance, for your safety, until the thing is weakened. You see, _it_ hates you now."

"Oh. But I guess we should be glad that _it_ hates me, right? That has to be a good sign?" He didn't answer her. "So I'll…hear from you soon then, Erik? You'll talk to me?"

"Oh, you should really hope to never see Erik again. But I doubt I have the willpower to resist you asking twice. Even once was too difficult. So, yes, I will be back. Just like a recurring nightmare."

"You're not-"

But he vanished, and the air around her instantly warmed.


	28. Chapter 28

**Thank you all! So happy you're still enjoying. I think this story will have 35 to 40 chapter, so we still have a ways to go. Hope no one minds the E/C in the next chapters ;)**

**Read and Review!**

Usually, her dreams formed a sequential story. But, once in a while, she'd have a memory come out of nowhere. Sometimes she'd see visions of Irene and Madeleine. Sometimes the distant past, usually men in Erik's position either suffering or harming others.

The night after finding Erik, Christine had one of these dreams. It was difficult to discern the year. Maybe the early 1700's? She couldn't understand the language, but it sounded like German. There was a kneeling man with wisps of blond hair wearing a brown cloth mask, clearly bound to the thing. He wore a long white linen shirt and black breeches. Red lesions covered his hands and forehead. A younger woman wore a crimson cape and hood. Curly brown hair peeked out the sides of it, tickling her cheek. It was winter, light snow falling from a grey sky. Beneath barren trees, she had knelt down in her long skirts and was speaking to the man. His replies were harsh and angry, but her voice remained gentle. Christine tried to understand. The man suddenly jumped up and started to run away. The woman sighed and touched her head and closed her eyes. Because-

Because she could hear him in her mind!

Christine would have done anything to see more, but that was the end. Still, she had finally glimpsed someone like her and her mother. Had the other woman ever figured out the puzzle?

It was 4 AM, and she never went back to sleep.

Raoul had called twice and left one voice message. "Hey. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Tonight was weird. I mean, creepy weird, after everything…. Anyway, maybe I'm being paranoid, but give me a call and let me know you're okay. Thanks! Love you!"

Of course Raoul would wonder if the problems at the concert hadn't been caused by an open window. Drowsy from lack of sleep, Christine called him later in the morning. "Hey. Yeah, I found out what happened. There's a device they use to make wind on the stage. You know, for plays? And someone turned it on as a prank. Isn't that mean?"

"Oh. Yeah, that is stupid. You're sure?"

"Yeah. That's all it was."

"Good. I couldn't help but wonder." She reassured him a few more times. Then he said, "You ran off really fast. You seemed kind of upset."

"I told you. Dinner with friends. After what happened, I just wanted to get out of there and change clothes."

"Oh. Right. Cool." He changed the subject. Her lies tasted bad in her mouth. He'd be scared and angry if he knew what she was doing, whom she was visiting.

Christine still wanted normal things someday. A loving husband. A few children. A cute house to decorate. A decent job, hopefully involving music. Raoul was her last piece of a certain and happy future. But she had no idea how long this detour would last, and she was becoming a dishonest and aloof girlfriend. There was a very good chance that he was going to be ready for those normal things before she was. And then what?

She still wasn't ready to let go even as she didn't put much effort into holding on….

Christine distracted herself from the conflict. More old books with cracked spines and crude websites that looked like they'd been designed in the 1990's. And questions. She needed a list of questions for Erik.

When would he contact her again? She kept her phone near and checked her e-mail frequently. Or would he leave a note somewhere? It turned out to be none of these. Erik could be very direct when he wanted to be.

Christine was upstairs at work when she first heard the sound in her mind. Nearly dropping the stack of books in her arms, she looked around and whispered his name.

"Do you still want to see me, or have you wisely changed your mind?" His voice seemed to come from everywhere.

"I still want to see you. Where are you?"

"Don't you always know?"

"Well." She nervously laughed and began to try to follow the sound. "This isn't fair. Where are you?"

"I occasionally wondered if you might be trying to entrap me. Why else would you want to see me again?"

"Erik. You can throw people…or _it_ can throw people across the room. I doubt the police would have a chance. And, anyway, I don't want to do that. I want to help you."

"I believe you. And I will talk to you. In a practice room as before. Is that to your liking?"

"Yes. That would be great. I get off in thirty minutes."

"Then I will wait for you."

She snuck away from work ten minutes early and ran over to their room in the music building. Only a few lights were on in the quiet hallways; no one else was around. There was a single dim light on in the room with the piano. Christine remembered their last encounter in the practice rooms and shivered. Listening to the weakened humming, she took a slow seat on the tiles and crossed her legs. Even though she couldn't see him, she said, "Hi." Her voice echoed.

She couldn't tell where he was. In the dark corner? Just outside the room? Somewhere weirder? Still, she respected his space. "I have one more condition. For these meetings," he said.

She braced herself. "Yes?"

"I want to continue working with your voice. At the concert, you were severely out of practice. And I…I know you merely see me as a project. And I cannot see you that way. But I still want to be of use to you."

"I'd like to see you as a friend. I have projects in all my classes, and they're not even getting done. Did you know that?" He didn't say anything. She sighed. "Yes. Of course you can still teach me to sing. I'd love that."

"Does Chagny know you are here?"

"Yeah. He said to tell you 'hello.'"

"Sarcasm is unbecoming." She smiled slightly. "Where do you want me to begin?" he asked, his voice wary.

"From the beginning of your memories. I know everything about Irene and Maddy up to when you were born. Except for how Angela was involved. I'm still learning that."

"All of this from dreams?"

Swallowing, she chose not to lie. "No. I had a meeting with Madeleine. She told me a lot of the story."

The following silence made her nervous. "Why would you meet with _her_?"

"Because you weren't around. She was the only living person who seemed to know anything." She told him a few more details about Maddy and Irene that he might not know, about how the dark presence had lingered around them until the night of his birth. "She was very scared, Erik."

"I am sure that Madeleine was extremely thankful to get rid of her possessed, deformed child," he replied. "Who wouldn't be? Well. You have certainly gone to great lengths for this."

"I've tried to do what I can. Which isn't much yet." She gently urged him forward. "Do you remember Irene?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about her, Erik."

"You seem to know enough."

"I'd like to hear it directly from you, please."

So he told her. Every single one of his childhood memories featured the thing. _It_ had practically raised him like a ghastly parent, punishing him if he was good and rewarding him if he misbehaved. "I was a horrid child. Irene was exceedingly patient. Had I been her, I would have tied me in a burlap sack and dropped me in the river."

"No child could have come out of that and been okay. I wouldn't have."

"I became far too much for her to handle, and she was going to send me away."

"Where?" Christine asked.

"I do not know. But I sensed that I would be imprisoned. And the thing sensed this as well. One night,_ it_ convinced me to knock over a candle. _It_ told me I would not have to go away if I did this." Erik told her of the fire. And of how he had nearly killed his great aunt. "The best thing I ever did for Irene was leave that night."

"How old were you?"

"Five."

"_Five?_ My God." She shook her head and tried to keep her emotions in check. "I have another question. So, the thing needed you to knock over the candle? _It _couldn't just do that? It moved objects at my last concert. And it was throwing people around the room at the cabin."

"At the cabin, the thing had complete control of me. At that point, _it_ can use my body to do anything. To kill. But—otherwise, there are some limits. I have never seen it directly kill anyone. Not without…my assistance. That is why it wants a human."

"So, unless it has complete control of you, it can only hurt people?"

"At the most. The more I feed it, the stronger it becomes. The heavier objects it can lift. The farther its reach. When you first met me, I doubt it could have done much of anything to anyone."

"I see."

"Are you horrified yet, or shall I continue?" he asked. "The story only gets worse. I only get worse."

"I want to hear," she firmly replied. "What happened to you next?"

"I wandered. What else does a five-year-old do? Misguided souls would sometimes pick me up and take me to a foster family or an orphanage. The thing allowed me to stay for short periods of time. I required some interaction with human beings. How else would I learn to properly manipulate them? To feed _it_? But the thing would always send me on my way before I overstayed my welcome."

"Did you know that you were different? That no one else had a-a supernatural creature attached to them?"

"Yes, I figured this out as I aged. There were times I thought I might be crazy, but the thing always proved itself real. The older I became, the more _it_ demanded."

"It wanted you to do even worse things?" she asked.

"Yes. I finally became too tall and weird looking, and people stopped picking me up off the streets. I joined what was basically a city gang. I was twelve, but I think the other members sensed that I was different. The leader pointed a gun at me, testing me, and I didn't flinch. Why would I?"

She murmured, "You can't…."

"Die? No. I learned very early on that no one could fatally harm me. When I finally had the courage, I learned that I could not even terminate my own existence. _It _stops me in one way or another."

With her eyes staring at the ground, she softly asked, "Could you stop trying? Please? Can you give me a chance?"

He grunted. "If that makes _you _feel better."

"Yes, thank you."

"I was the youngest of the group of deviants, and I served as a lookout or did odd jobs while they robbed homes and businesses or worked the black markets. The thing was very proud of me, telling me how far I would go one day. I no longer felt pain. I earned money. And respect. Until one night, a couple of them were mugging this scrawny man, more for laughs than money. His daughter was with him; she might have been around my age. They pushed her to the ground to get her out of the way. She started to cry. I reached down and touched the top of her head. I think…I think that I was trying to offer her comfort. But she screamed the second my fingers touched her hair. She screamed and screamed. I will never forget that sound. I stepped in front of her, afraid that they would shoot her just to shut her up. A police car arrived, and we ran. The others were furious with me, ready to kill me, and I moved on to a new gang. But - I never tried to be kind again. I knew what I was."

She'd pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "That's all very sad, Erik."

"The next several years were the same. Until I had adjusted well to the underground world. And then the thing told me that I was meant for much more. And I was also ready to find answers concerning the oddness of my existence. So I headed overseas. But I think that is enough for tonight. Let us move on to your voice."

She half-jokingly replied, "I might be too sad to sing very well."

"Ah, but suffering creates the greatest art. Then again, I do not want you to suffer. Even for art. For any reason. So if you would like to leave, you are welcome to do so. And if you never return, I will understand. My past is a horror story, not a fairy tale."

His words hurt her. But Christine knew he was being entirely honest with her now. This was how he felt. Erik was no longer pretending that everything was okay or normal. That was good. And so she would be strong for him. She gathered herself together and stood up. "I'm ready to sing." The violin played a few pretty notes. And she warmed up and sang for him, accepting his corrections calmly.

He didn't work her past the point of exhaustion. Not even close. Music added a softer touch to these meetings. It brought back simpler days and gave them a brief escape into something beautiful. But it was not the focus, and Erik knew this. He knew that, when she left, Christine wouldn't be thinking about her voice.

Before she departed, she hesitantly said, "Oh, Erik. There's one more thing."

"Yes?"

"There's a memory from a long time ago that I really want to see more of. It's one of the thing's memories. Gosh, it has to be from the 1700's. If I don't dream about it again soon, could I…could we put our heads together again? I mean, literally. And maybe I could see more. I know it's not safe now, but I can tell that the thing has really weakened. So I'm sure we'd be safe at some point, right?" _I want to touch you..._

"I suppose so." She could barely hear him.

"Thank you." She started to leave. "Oh. I almost forgot. Um, before Irene died, she wanted you to know that she was sorry. She told Madeleine that she was sorry."

A pause. "She had nothing to be sorry for. There was nothing she could have done. Except wait around to die."

"She cared about you, though. She never forgot you." He didn't reply. "All right, then. Goodnight, Erik. I'll seen you soon?"

"If you wish."

She cried for a little while when she took a shower later that night, the salty streams blending with the warm spray of water. Putting on a large t-shirt and drying her hair off with a fuzzy towel, she knew she could no longer deny how important this all was to her. It went far beyond giving her strange abilities meaning. She could not sit and listen to his story with the composure of a psychiatrist. Her chest hurt.

_Come on dreams. Give me something. Anything._

Angela spent more time with her fiancé as the wedding neared. She would try to include Lillian in her planning, the dresses, decorations, and food. She tried to introduce Lillian to her other friends in town, inviting her to church and luncheons. But Lillian would only agree to go to the orchards or the nearby woods for two person picnics or to simply enjoy nature. Angela once said, "You're so strange. How are you ever going to get anywhere without talking to anyone? When I tell people about you, they're starting to think you're imaginary."

"I talk to you," said Lillian.

"Well, I'm going on my honeymoon soon. And then who will you talk to? The birds?" Lillian looked away. Angela murmured, "Sorry."

It all came to a head on the night that Angela brought Jeffrey to Mildred's house for dinner. Christine finally caught a brief glimpse of Erik's grandfather. He had short sandy brown hair and green eyes. A few freckles on his cheeks and nose. He had a nice smile and seemed a little bashful. And he was tall and thin.

Lillian refused to come out of her room the entire time. After Jeffrey was gone, Angela marched right up to the front of Lillian's door. She forcefully knocked on it three times. "Why are you like this? Why do you hide in your room when anyone comes over? You wouldn't even meet Jeffrey! What's wrong with you?"

"Leave me alone! It's none of your business! I pay rent here!"

"No! I've tried to introduce you to my friends. I've helped you look for work. You won't have any of it. So what's the use anymore? Why should I even try?"

"Leave me alone!"

"Why wouldn't you meet my fiancé!?"

A pause. "Because he'd stare at me too long with that look in his eyes. He'd want me. Like all the other men! And then you'd hate me for it!"

"How dare you!" Angela pounded on the door with her fist one last time. "I'm done trying to be your friend or helping you or convincing Mildred that you're not going to cause trouble for her. She can kick you out on the streets for all I care!"

The door opened slowly. Angela stepped back. "You're right," murmured Lillian, cheeks tear-stained and red. "You're right. There's no point in helping me. I'll leave tomorrow, if I can get a train."

"What? Where are you going?"

"It doesn't matter. I should keep moving. I've been here way too long. And you're right. You've been nothing but nice to me. So thank you for everything you've done. I mean it."

Angela's eyes softened. She sighed and made a dismissive gesture. "I didn't mean all that. My temper can be…I…." She squinted. "Why should you keep moving? Wait. Are you running away from someone?" Lillian looked down. "That's it, isn't it? It all makes sense now. Who?" Angela lowered her voice. She walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, nearly cornering Lillian against the mattress. "Did you have a husband that beat you? Because if he ever comes here, we'll get some of Jeffrey's friends together. And they'll show him a thing or two."

Lillian nearly laughed. "No. I never had a husband."

"Then a lover?"

"No," Lillian snapped. "I've never been with a man!"

"Then are you in some other kind of trouble?"

"No. You won't believe me. I can't…." She choked. "I can't. I don't want to talk about it."

"Tell me what's wrong with you," Angela pled, holding out her hands. "It can't be that bad."

"It is, though. It's worse!"

"Are you sick? Are you with child? Were your parents mean to you? Is the law after you? What is it?!"

"Worse than all of that," Lillian murmured. Her arms curled up against her chest. Her forehead shined with perspiration. "I need air. I need to go outside." Before they left, she reached under the bed and pulled out a little brown box. After opening the lid, she grabbed a square object from inside and stuffed it into her pocket. "Let's go."

They went out into the evening. Angela spread a patchwork quilt beneath the apple trees. Lillian sat and gathered her knees up to her chest. Angela took a slow seat and put her legs out straight, her arms out behind her for support. She patiently waited.

Lillian softly began, "I had polio as a child. My grandfather was a big part of the steel industry at the turn of the century, so my family was very wealthy. High society types. I think I was kind of an embarrassment to them."

"I'm sorry," said Angela. "But you must have recovered quickly. I mean…." She looked her over. "I mean, you're fine now."

"I didn't recover well. A year ago, I was in a wheelchair. I had no use of my legs and limited use of my arms. I barely saw my parents. They hired lots of help to take care of me. I spent most of my time staring out the window of my bedroom or asking one of my nannies to help me turn pages in my books."

Angela squinted. "I don't understand. How'd you get better so quickly?"

"I made a deal…."

"What kind of a deal?"

Her voice was nearly a whisper, and her was speech was slow. "At one of my parents' parties, I met a man who could do magic. Like a wizard. It seemed too good to be true. And I couldn't resist..." She continued even as Angela's face twisted with disbelief. Whether because she didn't want to share the details or because she couldn't remember, Lillian only briefly summarized the ritual. And Lillian seemed unclear as to what would happen to a future baby. "I just know it can't be good. I know I have to keep running." She glanced at Angela. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"I…I don't what to think," Angela admitted. "There's always been something strange about you. But things like that don't happen. Are you sure he wasn't lying to you?"

"How would I get better overnight? I could walk again!" She reached into her pocket and took out the object. A black and white photograph in a silver frame. Lillian thrust it out toward Angela. There was a well-dressed family with two parents and several siblings. And there was a slightly younger Lillian, looking very frail in a wheelchair. "It's one of the few pictures I got to be in."

Angela's hands trembled with the photograph, her face growing whiter. "Maybe it was a miracle!"

"Yes. A wonderful miracle happened the same night I made a deal with the Devil. By coincidence."

Angela recoiled. "Was he really the Devil?"

"I don't know. He had powers."

"How can it be real?" Angela was nearly speaking to herself.

"Why do you think all the men look at me? I'm cursed. I'm supposed to have a baby for him! Alexander is going to make sure it happens. That's why I have to keep running!"

"It can't be…."

"Alexander said that I was supposed to feel differently, too," Lillian softly continued. "Unable to resist the touch of men. And they can't resist me. So a baby would have to come. It'd be inevitable. And it's only been lately that I know why maybe that part hasn't happened." She wrung her hands. "Or maybe I have known for a while. Even before Alexander. But you don't ever think or talk about that sort of thing. Not where I from." She cast a lingering glance toward Angela.

"What in the world are you talking about?" asked Angela, rubbing her hands over her face. She was too bewildered by Lillian's first story to think about anything else.

"Nothing." She looked away, her cheeks turning red. "Never mind. Even if I outsmarted him for a little while, I'm still cursed. And he's still coming. He'll make sure I give him a baby. No matter what."

They sat in the quiet for nearly an hour, watching fireflies light up. A wind brushed up against them, rustling their long hair.

"Well," finally murmured Angela, her eyes distant as she tried to determine what sort of world she was living in. "We have to figure out how to fix it then. I don't care what he gave you, you can't owe someone your own baby. That's too awful for words."

Lillian glanced at her in surprise, and the dream ended.

* * *

><p><em>It <em>had punished him soundly during their meeting. Pain radiated throughout his body as though his veins were on fire. He didn't care. Seeing her again, having her there willingly, was worth every second of agony.

Pain was one thing. Physically crumbling was another.

His bodily decay had been very gradual the last time he fought _it._ Perhaps the thing was more panicked now that he had failed the ritual a second time. Perhaps the thing was aging in its own way and needed to feed more frequently. For whatever reason, though, he could see an increasingly yellowish tint to his dry skin. His hair was nearly gone.

There was a flip side to this, though. The faster he decayed, the faster _it_ weakened. The shorter its reach. The less it could hurt her. He could feel the thing attempting to make him as miserable as possible while still preserving its strength.

Several evenings later, as she sat on the floor with a blanket over her legs, he told her about Europe. He had learned the ins and outs of the black markets. And then went onto higher dollar activities. Arms dealing. Insider trading. Political bribes. The thing had wanted him to become a master manipulator and an expert in all trades that damaged humanity. So he spent nights appeasing _it_, doing whatever it asked like an obedient dog. And then spent the daytime huddled over books, still trying to figure out what the hell this all was. "Of course I went to Rome. I went to Vatican City. They seemed like obvious destinations."

"But you didn't find anything?" He noticed her eyes seemed heavy. She was lacking sleep.

"No. Although being there seemed to agitate the thing. So I did not stay long."

"This is probably a ridiculous question…."

"Well, then now I must hear it." He almost smiled. She sat there with her pen poised over her notebook like an astute scholar. He ached for her.

"Crosses and holy water-"

"No. They have no effect. Nothing like that ever has."

She slowly nodded. He leaned against the wall to relieve the pain in his feet and continued. "I went down to the cradle of civilization, modern day Mesopotamia. Iraq. Kuwait. Syria. The thing drew me there, for its own purposes I suppose. Plenty to do. And I thought I might find answers in the artifacts of the ancient world. Nothing. Until, one night, I was sitting at a bar in Istanbul, trying to escape my existence for an hour or two. Not that alcohol or any other substance has much of an effect unless the thing takes pity on me."

She asked, "What about food?"

"I don't need it."

"Can you even enjoy it?"

"If the thing thinks I deserve to enjoy food, then I can take some pleasure from it."

"Do you sleep?"

"No," he replied. "Not really. I can, oh, zone out now and then." She tilted her head, and her forehead crinkled. "What are you thinking, Christine? Be honest. Do I repulse you?"

"No! No, I was just thinking about what that would be like. Never having to sleep or eat or do anything to stay alive. I mean, it's still all terrible for you. But you don't have to be afraid of dying."

"I am aware of the advantages. There has been more than one occasion when I have watched men around me die, while I am left standing without a scratch. At the end of the day, though, I am nothing but a servant. In my youth, I appeased _it_ because I knew no other way. A pathetic puppet. Until Alexander."

Her head shot up. "You found him?"

"He found me. While I was in Istanbul, this man with a long dark beard came up to me. He sat beside me and whispered, 'I know who you're looking for. He's ready to meet you.' I ignored him at first. Until he said, 'He's like you. He knows what you want. A face, yes? And he will help you get it. And much, much more.'"

He was going tell her the rest of the story that evening—reveal his past and see if she still wanted anything to do with him. But the thing became so enraged by his defiance, by his refusal to stop seeing Christine, that _it_ finally could not resist doing some damage. Blood suddenly filled his mouth. He sputtered out the metallic-tasting fluid. And spat out a couple of his front and back teeth along with it. He cursed as he watched the little white objects hit the floor. One of them bounced.

"Erik?" She was standing and looking around. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Yes," he replied. "But that is enough for tonight."

"Okay. Do you want me to sing?"

"I…must go now."

"But I'll see you again?"

"Yes."

One of her hands was curled near her heart. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes," he snapped. Then more gently, "Goodnight, Christine. I will see you soon." As he returned to his coffin and dank little hole, he hissed at _it_, "Take them. Take all of them! I am still going to see her."

"_You think I will stop with your teeth?! I will tear you apart until there is nothing left. Until the smell of your rotting body makes her vomit. Until your flesh falls into her hair like dust. Until you are a living corpse. Will she tolerate you then?"_

He tried to drown _it_ out after that. But there was an icy inevitability to its words. Eventually, she would realize that nothing could be done. That this was all futile.

And then what?


	29. Chapter 29

**Thank you all for your continuing support. I hope you enjoy this chapter. For those who celebrate, have a Happy Thanksgiving, too!**

**Read and Review!**

Christine had been reading the same sentence in a psychology text for the last ten minutes. The class wasn't even that difficult, but the semester was a mess of half-finished projects and unread chapters. Summer break was a bright beacon. She'd spend her time helping Erik and working and-

When Raoul called her in the middle of that Saturday afternoon, asking her out to dinner, she was grateful for the break. He was grinning when he picked her up. She greeted him with a quick kiss. "You look happy," she said.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm good. Busy. Trying to get through the end of the semester."

"Yeah. I know how that goes. Almost there, though. Anything else up?"

"No. Just school." She softly yawned as though her life were the most boring thing in the world. "How about you? Anything fun planned?"

"Well, now that you've asked…." He smiled again. Her stomach turned nervously. "Here. Let me get us to the restaurant." It was a short drive that felt like fifty miles. He finally parked to the side of the street and turned all the way toward her. "So. I've got a surprise." He reached for his pocket. For a terrifying moment, Christine thought he was going to propose.

And that she'd have to actually deal with this situation.

Raoul produced two pieces of paper.

"What are those?" she asked.

"Our airline itinerary for a two week trip to the…." He paused dramatically. "Bahamas! In June. We've got the best of hotels and resorts. Beaches. Snorkeling. Sailing. Just like we planned when we were making it up. Remember?"

She blinked and slowly took the pieces of paper, her mind sorting through the information. "Wow," she said. "Two weeks. Thank you. Wow. I can't believe it. It must be so expensive, though."

"No big deal. Like I said, we need to get away. Change of scenery. It seems like a long time since we've had fun, doesn't it?"

"Fun." She said it like a foreign word. "Yeah."

"So when you're doing all your homework and studying, just remember what's around the bend. And you can look online and find some stuff that you'd like to do there. Shopping. Whatever you see, I'm game, k?"

She nodded. "Thank you. It's amazing." He leaned in, and they kissed.

Christine tried not to think about the getaway until Raoul brought her home that night. She didn't want to sit through dinner with a troubled expression on her face. As soon as she walked through the front door, her eyes immediately fell on the stack of old books. Sunshine and beaches seemed worlds away from her dark apartment. And demon research. And…Erik.

It would be nice to take a short break, but two weeks was a long time. Erik didn't seem to be doing very well; she could hear that in his voice. She hadn't come to him with an offer of help only to abandon him.

Her heart felt heavy as she went to bed early. And the dreams didn't help her mood.

Bewildered, Angela started down the same path that Christine had. Of course, Angela didn't have access to the Internet. And her town didn't have much of a library. She and Lillian browsed through a slim selection of novels, cooking books, manuals, and encyclopedias. "Well, this isn't helpful. I'll have to make a trip to the city. They should have a better selection."

"There's not going to be some manual about how to make _this_ go away," Lillian replied, stepping back and crossing her arms. Every once in a while, she'd look around to make sure no one was watching her.

"You can't be the first person this has happened to, right?" Angela sighed and dropped a book on automotive repair for the 'modern gentleman.' "I'll go after my honeymoon. And some of the university libraries have lots of old books. That could be an idea, too." Angela cleared her throat. "So I'll be gone for about two weeks. You'll stay here, right? You won't disappear on me?"

"I've been here a long time, and he still hasn't come. Maybe he forgot." She snorted.

Angela bit her lip and rubbed the tip of her shoe against the carpet. "Are you completely sure that's what made you better? Miracles can happen. Like, um, I heard about this little boy that fell into the river. They pulled him out, and it looked like he was dead. He wasn't breathing. Then he suddenly woke up! And he was fine. Maybe you got really lucky."

"But I feel it," said Lillian, squeezing her arms against her chest. "I feel it around me. Like someone wrapped a cold shawl around my shoulders that I can't get off."

"You feel what?"

"I don't know. Sometimes…sometimes I feel like Alexander wasn't the only one there that night." She shivered. "Never mind."

"We'll keep trying." Even as she patted Lillian's arm reassuringly, there was lingering disbelief in Angela's eyes.

Christine was treated to flashes of Angela's wedding in the little church. She wore a simple lacy dress with a sweetheart top and long veil, her dark curls framing her face. Jeffrey smiled shyly beside her, a white carnation pinned proudly on his black jacket. The guests were a collage of brown and grey suits and pastel colors. Lillian watched the ceremony, hidden in a corner and far away from everyone else. Toward the end, she started to back away toward the doors.

"All this sentimentalism too much for you?" whispered a woman's voice.

Lillian turned. And there was Irene in a no-nonsense cerulean dress, fewer wrinkles on her face. Lillian half-smiled. "Kind of."

"Me, too. I always feel so out of place at these things. But she is my sister, so here I am. The cake should be good, though. Are you going to the reception?"

"No. No, I have to go now. It was nice meeting you. Please tell Angela congratulations." Lillian turned to run out the doors. Irene shrugged and joined the other guests. She had no idea that she'd just met the girl who would shape the rest of her life.

While Angela was gone, Lillian stayed in her room. Sometimes she'd appear ready to leave, flipping through her possessions and suitcase, pacing and looking out the small window. Mildred would shake her head and glance at the closed bedroom door, muttering things like, "Girl could be dead in there, and no one would know until the smell became too much."

Finally, the tension was broken when Angela's voice rang through the house one sunny Sunday afternoon. "Hellooooo! Anyone here?"

"Well, there she is!" exclaimed Mildred, running out of the kitchen in an apron. She threw her arms around Angela suntanned shoulders. "How are you, dear?!"

"Wonderful!" She was beaming and bright-eyed, wearing a white sundress with sunflowers. "It was perfect. We had the best time in the world." They chattered over the details, over how beautiful the wedding had been. Lillian stared over the railing upstairs, as though scared to join them.

Angela finally glanced upwards. "Lillian!" She ran up the steps and hugged her. "How are you? I thought about you all the time."

"You did?"

"Yes, silly!" She turned back to Mildred. "I'll be down in a minute for pie. I promise." Without waiting for a response, Angela turned back to Lillian and lowered her voice. "I was afraid I'd come back and find you gone. I even called Mildred to make sure she hadn't kicked you out. Anyway, I made Jeffrey take me to this little store on the island. And I bought some books on spells and all that. But you have to keep quiet about them. It is like witchcraft. Not that we'd be burned at the stake anymore. But people talk in little towns like this."

"Who would I tell?" asked Lillian, rolling her eyes. "All my friends?"

"But you'll look at them with me?"

"I don't have anything to lose by trying."

And so then they began to run into the woods together several evenings a week, reading these books. Searching for ways to fix it. They had about as much luck as Christine finding anything useful. But they did have fun together. At the beginning. They gathered candles, incense, herbs, and spices. Sticks and twigs and stones. Some of the stranger rituals and spells called for sacrifices. So, one day, Angela came to the woods carrying a tan cloth sack. "What's in there?" asked Lillian.

"A dead squirrel."

"You killed a squirrel?" She leaned back.

"No! Jeffrey's brother got it while hunting the other day."

"Oh. But what if we are supposed to kill our own squirrel?"

"Yuck!" Angela exclaimed. "You kill a squirrel, then."

They were stumbling blindly and going nowhere, just as Christine was. And trying to hide their activities from the rest of the world.

"Does your husband wonder where you go?" Lillian once asked.

"I just tell him that I go to sewing club with my church friends. He gets his dinner on time. Besides, every evening, he likes to go into the shed and tinker with things. Taking them apart and putting them back together. In fact, for his last birthday, I gave him this old broken radio. One week later, he proposed!"

"He doesn't seem to say much."

Angela laughed. "He's quiet around most people. But he's funny when he gets to know you. And very smart!"

"You're happy?"

"Yes," said Angela. She took her friend's frigid hand and squeezed it. "And, Lillian, you're going to be happy, too. We'll fix this so you don't have to hide all the time."

But then something started to happen. As the weeks passed, the color began to drain from Angela's face. She became as pale as Lillian. A dullness entered her eyes, and her lips lost their healthy redness. Lillian finally asked, "Are you feeling well? You look a little off. I hope you don't have the flu."

"I'm fine," she sharply replied. After a second, Angela asked, "Do you still feel it? The cold shawl around your shoulders?"

"Yes. Always."

"Then we have to keep trying. Because I feel it, too."

Lillian drew back. "How do you feel it? You're not cursed. That doesn't make sense."

"I don't know," she whispered. "But I do."

Christine woke up shivering violently. She wrapped the covers and sheets tightly around her body. That didn't help. She finally climbed out of bed and turned the heat up five degrees. She glanced at her phone. A new text message awaited her. From an unrecognizable number. "Our room tonight at 9?"

She instantly replied, "I'll be there."

Erik had disappeared so abruptly at their last meeting that she'd been worried about him. His physical state and emotional welfare. Whether he could keep his word. Her lingering fears regarding the latter were relieved as soon as she heard the weakened humming. But she still had the feeling that Erik was hiding his condition from her. "How are you?" she asked.

"Erik is still here," he replied. His beautiful voice remained, but it was scratchier. "Unfortunately. But you are here now, too. Fortunately."

She settled onto the floor and gently smiled. "I'm glad you contacted me."

"Are you? Still?"

"I was worried about you. And you stopped at such an important part of the story."

"Ah. Yes. The enchanting Alexander."

"Is there anything you want to talk about first?" she asked. These meetings weren't only for her.

"No. No, I can simply continue. Let me see." There was a weariness in Erik's voice. "Istanbul. Yes. I followed the man with the beard from Turkey to Iran. He had government ties, and I was treated like a welcomed guest."

"They weren't scared of you?"

"They didn't know what I was. Only that Alexander wanted me. And that you did not disappoint him without severe consequences. Months passed before he finally revealed himself. I was reading a newspaper, bored, and he suddenly appeared in my hotel room. Thinking he might be there to kill me, I was very ready to…end him first. But he laughed and said, 'I can't kill you, and you can't kill me. So let's not waste any time with that. Besides, Erik, we're precisely on the same side, aren't we? And I'm here to help you, my friend."' Erik paused. "Once I understood, I was nearly ecstatic! Finally, I had found someone like myself."

"Did you know that he was responsible for your, um, condition?" she asked.

"I figured that out eventually. Of course, I wanted to kill him. But I literally could not. And he was still my only hope for answers."

"What'd he tell you?"

"First, he explained that we had very important places in history. To clarify, he had been in the Middle East for nearly twenty years. Twenty years of turmoil. His predecessor was active in Europe from 1920 to 1945."

She blinked. "Was he-?"

"No. No one that you would recognize from the history books. The thing does not want to draw attention to itself. Can you imagine the panic that would ensue if too many people knew of _its_ existence? We only serve as advisors. The thing encourages us to whisper in the ears of already depraved and power-hungry men. And the modern age has only made this easier. Once upon a time, a letter would have to be sent by ship to start a conflict between countries. Now, one click of a computer mouse or ring of phone makes this instantaneously possible. I think the thing knows this. I think that is why _it _is more desperate than ever to survive."

"I still don't understand. Why does this thing want to hurt people?"

"That is the billion dollar question, isn't it? And one that I cannot really answer. Why does a virus replicate and destroy?"

She tilted her head. "So you think the thing is like a disease? I mean, you think it's scientific? You don't think it's a demon?"

"I have pondered that my entire life. Perhaps if a-a benevolent God suddenly popped out from the clouds and explained my situation, that might make my life a bit more tolerable. But I have always been alone. And yet never been alone."

His honesty throughout the conversation touched her. And her mind was stretched as they spoke of these things. "So we know there's an evil being of some kind. And there's me and my mother and at least one other woman who can hear it. Do you—Gosh. Sorry for all these questions."

"They are good questions." His voice was gentle. "Unfortunately, most have no answers. Go on."

"Do you know of any other people who aren't so normal?"

"Human beings have always had tales of possession. Most cases are probably the result of mental illness, not demons. And yet—I have occasionally seen people with strange eyes. Hollow eyes. And the thing reacts to them. Vibrating and tingling as though recognizing an old friend. They are not like me or Alexander. They are sometimes disoriented. Homeless. But…."

"Something is off?"

"Exactly." She didn't ask another question, and Erik continued with his story. "Alexander introduced me to the complexities of the region. He showed me how to exploit the weaknesses for my personal gain. How to affect the rest of the world—one domino tips over the next. Fragile governments. Disputes between various groups going back centuries. Conflicts over natural resources. Anger over Western interference. I am sure you know much of it by now. I grew almost as influential as Alexander, mingling with the highest ranking officials and criminals at times in various countries. But—eventually I also grew bored with political games, of figurative and literal backstabbing. And cruelty for the sake of cruelty. I was sick of being the thing's puppet. And I told Alexander this one evening as we had one of our long meetings over a banquet that we did not even need. Food that could have fed an entire starving city!" Erik's voice grew angrier. "He was going on and on about how much fun the next few decades would be, how lucky I was to experience them. To make them my own. And I suddenly stood up and yelled, 'Is this all there is to our lives?!' He quickly understood what I meant. Or I thought he did. He explained what was necessary to make my transition complete. A new heir for the thing. A new face for me."

"The ritual."

"Yes. Alexander said that I would have endless female companionship once the transition was complete. But I began to realize that, while he was capable of lust, Alexander could not feel anything else. He was basically the thing in human form, lacking all humanity. He no longer understood art, music...love. And I realized that, if I went through with it, my body would also belong to the thing. Erik would no longer exist. And that is why I could not go through with it the first time."

"The first time? Another girl?"

Erik hesitated as though he didn't want to share this part. "A woman whose husband and son had been imprisoned by the state and sentenced to death. She was eager to make a bargain and save them. After I terminated the ritual, Alexander killed her. To keep her from spreading our secrets. I left soon afterwards."

She recalled the memories of the girl's death, of how her throat was slit. "What happened to Alexander?"

"He is dead. After I left, he attempted to track me for a year. But his contract was finally expired."

"Someone told you he died? Or you went back?"

"Neither. I felt him die. Through the thing, I suppose. We were always connected."

Christine sat up straight with her back against the wall, her eyes on the floor. He hadn't gone into extreme detail over his activities, for both their sakes, but his past was still clear. People had suffered and died because Alexander and Erik had treated them like dominoes and chess pieces. The thing tormented people for fun. What more was there to know?

"I have another question." She took a deep breath. "Well, first. Let me tell you some things." Christine explained Lillian's story, and Erik said that Alexander had briefly mentioned his first failed attempt. "She was supposed to give Alexander an heir, but the ritual didn't change her feelings."

Erik sadly chuckled. "I am sure he was completely befuddled by that."

"And then Angela tried so hard to help her. Your grandmother was a good person."

"No good deed," Erik replied.

"I'm terrified of how their story is going to end."

"Not well, I assume." He grunted. "So what is your question?"

"Well, I can see why you chose that first girl for the ritual. She was going to lose her loved ones. And Lillian was really suffering. And what Alexander offered her—I can see why she made the deal. But Meg. Was she really that miserable? Why Meg? Especially after what you learned with the first girl?"

Erik audibly sighed. "How is your poor friend?"

"I think she'll be okay. But that was really the hardest part of all this."

"Yes. I-"

"It's okay," she said. "I forgive you. I was just wondering why…."

"When your friends were driving you away, when I thought you were leaving me forever, my initial plan was to grab you. To take you and just keep you forever. Whether you liked it or not. Horrible. But that is the truth." Erik's voice trembled. "The thing feared this. Because I think _it_ knew that we would talk as we are talking right now. That you would stop me from going through with another ritual. So Megan became _its_ last chance to claim a female vessel. _It_ promised me that I would not completely lose my sense of self, that I would still be able to care for you. And that you would…want me once my face was fixed. All lies, of course."

"And Meg would have worked?"

"She was somewhat unhappy. She was somewhat open to a bargain. And I was more than desperate."

"Wrong place, wrong time," Christine murmured.

"Aren't we all victims to circumstance? Do any of us have control over any aspect of our little lives?"

"I'd like to think so." They sat in the silence for moment, taking it all in. "Erik?" she softly asked. "Could I see you? Just for a moment? Is it safe?"

She waited nearly ten seconds for his response. "Possibly."

"Let's try. Please. I really want that memory."

She saw his bright yellow eyes first. Then she felt the biting cold. Slowly, Christine stood. She waited for something bad to happen, for the ceiling to fall or the floors to shake. The air only became more frigid, the wind pressing against her face. Erik was covered in black, from mask to gloves to shoes. His hands were curled, and his posture was slightly stooped. Slowly, she began to approach him. There was nothing in the room that could fly out and hurt her, but she still kept watch. So did Erik.

_It_ pushed against her with invisible, frozen hands. Her hair flew into her face, and her cheeks and nose grew numb. But she continued toward him, determined. She made it. Christine threw her arms around his neck tightly, bracing herself. His fingertips touched her back. "Put your head against mine," she whispered, closing her eyes and clutching onto his frail body. He did so. And she felt the memories begin, weaker but still present. Christine was unable to focus on any single one, but hopefully her brain would store them for later.

_It _stared to whisper some very nasty things into her ear—using vulgar words to tell her that she was stupid and promiscuous. Horrified, Erik nearly pulled away, but she held tightly and said, "Don't listen to it. Sticks and stones, right?" The memories stopped coming after ten seconds. Still, she held onto him as his fingers pressed into her shoulders, holding her in place. She pressed her cheek to his mask, one hand rising to cup the back of his nearly bald head. She held him because she wanted to, because it felt right.

Erik finally released her and drew back slightly. His hands were shaking. "Your mind must be very full by now. Perhaps that is enough. For your sanity."

"Oh. No." She looked into his eyes. "The memories stopped about a minute ago."

"Oh…." His gloved hand reached out and touched her cheek. "Oh." He bent slightly, and she heard him grunt in pain.

She quickly stepped back. "It's hurting you because of me, isn't it? I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"No. No, never be sorry for that. I do not care what _it_ does. I won't let it ruin this-this…." His arms fell to his sides. He tilted his head, and she saw a slight glint of confusion and mistrust in his eyes. "What are you—I still cannot believe that you are so kind to Erik now. A…friend, as you say. You are my friend? After everything?"

She looked down and rubbed arm. "Honestly, it was kind of like you were two people. The man from last fall. Who was my friend and helped me. Who I cared dearly about. And then another man appeared in December. A very scary person who hurt others. I want to believe that the first person I met was Erik. Because…that's the next part of the story, isn't it?" She looked up at him. "When you left Alexander, you stopped listening to _it_. And that's why you seemed so sick when we first met, right? I want to believe that's the real Erik."

He asked in a low voice, "What if you are wrong, dear Christine? What if the monster is me? What if Erik and_ it_ are one and the same?"

She stared at him steadily, waiting for him to make that decision, to answer that question for himself. Because he was the only one who could answer. Finally, she asked, "What do you want to be, Erik?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes."

He shrugged and turned to the side. "These days, I want to be nonexistent. Dead."

She showed no reaction and asked, "Why?"

He gave her an irritated glance. "_Obviously_, so I do not have to exist like this any longer."

She found her footing. "So you don't have to make the choice between hurting more people and suffering for the rest of your life? That's why you want to die, isn't it?" He didn't answer. "If you were a monster, I think that'd be a really easy decision, don't you?" He still said nothing. "You would have made that choice already. Just like Alexander." She took a step forward and asked, "What if you could be free of it instead? Wouldn't that be better than dead?"

"Why torment myself any longer with that inane question?" he asked through gritted teeth. His hands clenched, and his voice became hoarse. "Dwelling on impossibilities only results in the madness of last winter. I was desperate to be normal, even if that meant blowing up the entire world. I have been attached to this thing since the moment of birth. And I will be attached until I die. Accepting that fact is the only way to maintain my sanity."

"But we can…." Knowing empty words and what-ifs wouldn't help now, would only frustrate him more, Christine stopped speaking. "Erik." She offered him her open arms. He barely hesitated before he stepped forward and embraced her. Unlike words, touch was real and certain.

"I only have a little more to tell you," he murmured into her ear. "Of my past. Then what?" She could hear the unspoken question as he held to her—_Then will you leave me?_

"Then we'll start looking for real answers. And we won't stop until we find them. I promise we won't stop." She pressed a kiss to his exposed temple, her hand trailing down his shoulder and upper arm. The lesions that covered him…the yellowed skin and dry flesh and scent…no longer signified illness and imminent death. They were signs that he was fighting _it_; Christine wished that she'd understood this from the very beginning.

Finally, the pain became too much, and he flinched away from her. "I must go now. But I promise that we will make time for your voice at our next meeting. We will stop neglecting it." He turned to head toward the shadows.

"Erik?" He stopped walking, but his back was still turned toward her. "If you ever need me, you can always call. I won't even bother asking if you know where I live. Heh. But you are welcome there. Don't sit in the dark with _it_ for too long, okay?" He barely nodded. "Goodnight, Erik. I'll see you soon. Take care."

Christine left after he had disappeared. And she realized that she'd forgotten to tell him about her upcoming vacation.

No, she hadn't forgotten. She knew she wasn't going. She had subconsciously already made that decision.

And that choice was going to be another falling domino. She was about to lose another piece of her former life.

This one definitely hurt the most. As her dreams continued to darken, she was left even more alone.

Lillian and Angela spent more and more time in the woods, even as colder weather set in. They became nearly obsessed with getting rid of _it._ Obsessed to an unhealthy level. And the thing seemed to be wrapping tightly around them both, isolating them as their breaths became visible even when the temperature was warmer. Until, one day, Angela came to their usual spot with a mournful look on her sunken face. A full moon hovered above them in a clear evening sky. Branches creaked.

"What's wrong?" asked Lillian. Her eyes were also tired. Her hair was longer and tangled.

Angela sat on a log and said, "People see us running off together, staying out here so late, and they're talking. They're making up lies about us. You know how Mildred is ill with some kind of fever? Some people are blaming us. Jeffrey doesn't believe that nonsense. But—he said he's going to take me to a doctor soon. He doesn't think I'm well. He doesn't think I should come here anymore."

Lillian sunk to her knees on a bed of dry pine needles. "What are you going to do?" she whispered. "Are you going to leave?"

"I don't know," she murmured. "I feel like I can't go anywhere. These woods feel like home now." She looked toward the branches, her eyes unfocused as though she were drugged.

"I know what you mean."

They hugged each other and pulled a cotton blanket over their laps. Like two orphaned children. A shadow spread over them both like a second blanket, starting with the tips of their toes and then slithering over their bodies and up toward their faces.


	30. Chapter 30

**The Lillian part of this chapter is a pretty strong PG-13. Warning for sexual violence.**

**A big thanks to all who continue to review. I know it's a busy time of year.**

**Read and Review!**

When she went to Raoul's house that weekend, she played pretend for a while. They ordered a cheese pizza with garlic bread sticks and watched a comedy movie on his couch together. They cuddled just like the old days even as her mind wandered. She continued to cling to the familiarity while Raoul made comments about their getaway. "Our room has a Jacuzzi."

"That's amazing."

"We might be able to go swimming with dolphins."

"That'd be so cool." She did like dolphins. They always looked like they were smiling.

Playing pretend was easy when they were both in front of the television. She didn't have to look him in the eye. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he would occasionally kiss the top of it.

But, once the credits started to roll, she let him carry her to his bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed with her in his arms, and her hands rested on his shoulders. He began to kiss her. He pulled back for a second and said, "Wow. Garlic breath." He grinned.

She whacked him on the arm. "You have it, too. At least I know you're not a vampire. Haha."

Raoul playfully pretended to bite her on the neck and then kissed her gently there. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment as a heavy feeling weighed on her chest and stomach. He kissed her lips. And maybe she would have played pretend all night if he hadn't drawn back and said, with a beautiful smile, "I've been thinking about our trip all week. I can't wait to spend some real time with you. I've really missed you these past few months, Christine." His fingers gently tucked her hair behind her ear. Then they stroked her cheek, and she was suddenly reminded of the other. "I love you."

The guilt finally became too much. She sat up, pulled away, and started to cry. Her shoulders shook with each sob, and she placed her face into her hands.

"What's wrong?" he asked, touching her upper back. "Christine, what's wrong? What'd I say?"

There was a part of her that wanted to tell him the truth. Because there were days when she felt way in over her head and wanted help.

But she knew what his response would be to the truth—_I can't believe you're still seeing him. After what he did to us? Are you crazy? Sorry, I didn't mean that. But you need to get away from him. I should call the cops. Christine, this is really dangerous!_

Through her tears, she told him that she couldn't go on the trip. At first, she tried some lame excuses. Too busy with work. Thinking of taking summer school. No time.

"You can't just take two weeks?" he asked. "I can even try to reschedule."

"It wouldn't help. I can't go this summer."

"I don't understand. I don't understand," he kept saying. "Why don't you want to go? I thought you'd love it. I don't understand what you want anymore. Tell me what you want."

She became silent. Because she didn't really know what she wanted. Except to destroy the evil thing that was ruining the lives of countless people. She needed to focus on Erik. She needed to be able to see him, to touch him without feeling like she was betraying Raoul.

After running his hands over his face, probably frustrated by her silence, Raoul was finally the one to say, "Maybe we need a little break, Christine."

"But-" Christine wiped her nose on her hand. Was she really going to protest? All because she was too afraid to be on her own? "Maybe you're right," she whispered.

His face twitched as he tried to hide his disappointment. Raoul shrugged and looked at the carpet. "All right, then. We'll talk later, I guess. Once we've had some time to cool down."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, a broken record. He stood first, and she followed him out of the room.

He quietly drove her home. She stared forward, clutching her purse in her lap. Her stomach hurt as they reached her apartment. Christine started to climb out of the car, but he touched her arm and said, "Look. If you…If you don't want to go on the trip but want to stay together, tell me now. If there's something I don't understand—Well, I won't blow up our whole relationship over the Bahamas."

She stared at him for a moment, still wanting to cling to some piece of normal. "No. I mean, I mean we should take a little break. I haven't been a good girlfriend lately. I've been distant and busy and not much fun. I need some time to figure things out. I…I can't be a girlfriend right now…."

He withdrew his hand and faced forward again. "K."

"Raoul." She swallowed back her tears. "I'm sorry that everything got so messed up."

"Yeah. I kind of wish last winter had never happened."

"I know. But it did. And—"

"I don't understand why we can't go back to normal. Things could be like they were before."

"You should go back to normal," she softly replied. "I want you to. But I need to go my own way for a little while." He barely nodded. She climbed out and was met by the buzz of cicadas. "Goodnight, Raoul. Thank you for everything."

"Goodnight, Christine. Call me. If you ever want to talk."

"I will."

The walk to her front door felt long and lonely. After dropping her purse on the coffee table, she went into her bedroom and wept into her pillow. First Meg. Now Raoul. She must have cried herself to sleep. Because the next thing she knew, Christine was surrounded by trees. She sensed that the time period was Lillian's, but she was seeing the world through someone else's eyes. Who else would have the thing attached to them?

Alexander!

"You said this was done!" he roared, on his knees and clutching his head. A long black coat covered his body, and a matching wide-brimmed hat sat atop his head. Evening light streamed through tall pine trees. "Why are you still tormenting me?"

"_I do not have an heir yet,"_ said the thing, in a very powerful form. _"I need a human mind to help me understand why I do not have an heir yet."_

"I finished the goddamned ritual!"

"_You did not finish it. She must fulfill her part of the bargain."_

"It's not my fault. She was supposed to - I…."

"_If you do not get up and obey me, I will take that beautiful face. Do you remember your childhood, Alexander? You were kept in a dark closet with nothing but a bucket because your parents believed you had the Devil in you. They tried to kill you, starve you. Do you want to go back to that?! Back to being a lowly freak?"_

"No," Alexander moaned, slowly rising to his feet. He touched his face to make sure it was still intact. He squared his shoulders. "No. I will find her. I will make sure she gives you an heir."

"_Then do it. Once it is done, I will ensure you never feel pain or humiliation again."_

"Yes, my Master." Determination entered his darkening eyes. He would fix this. He would find Lillian.

The thing spoke one last time, _"I sense another female near our vessel. And another possible path. Do as I tell you, and you will be rewarded."_

Christine could see flashes of Alexander's childhood, of a little boy locked in a pitch-black space with no friends and no hope. If he cried out in fear or sadness, his father threw ice water on him. Sometimes scalding water. And the thing whispered in his young and malleable mind, _"Let this torture build your character, my small friend. One day, you will make them all pay."_

And he had. Still a child, Alexander had slit the throats of his parents as they slept.

Morning brought slight relief from the heartache. Christine looked down at herself and noted that she'd forgotten to change into her pajamas. She was still wearing a black skirt and turquoise top that Raoul liked; both were now wrinkled. In the bathroom, she began to wash the streaked mascara from her face. Had she made the right decision?

Yes, she had. Everything else aside, she could finally admit to herself that her feelings about the relationship were no longer as strong. She'd changed. And that was really all that mattered. Still, she was going to miss him.

Erik soon asked to meet with her again, and she accepted. She'd decided beforehand not to say anything about Raoul unless it came up. She and Erik were still mending their delicate friendship.

He was hidden when she arrived, but Christine heard the weak humming. "Hi. How are you?" she greeted him.

"Still here. Unfortunately."

"I don't think it's unfortunate."

"I brought the violin. So I can at least be of some use."

"I don't know if my voice is going to save me this semester," she replied. "My grades are falling. Papers are due. Ugh."

"I have distracted you from your studies," he said. "I am still distracting you."

"I don't see it that way. What we're doing is really important. This thing has ruined so many lives. To get rid of it would be worth a thousand failing grades, right? We should probably get a Nobel Peace Prize." She cracked a smile.

"I would resist explaining all this to your professors, or I _will_ have to rescue you from the asylum. You may leave any of your work with me, if you wish. Really, the least I could do."

"Well, I could definitely use a little help." Despite the abnormally cold temperature, she felt a warmth in her chest. She felt comfortable here. "First, I'd love to hear the end of your story."

"The rest of my charming story can be quickly summed up. I searched the entire world for answers. Europe. Asia. Africa. I looked at books, ancient scrolls and artifacts. I spoke to mystics and religious figures. They usually fled when they realized the extent of my…problem. Frauds, all of them. For a while, the thing tolerated my disobedience with only bouts of occasional pain. After a couple of years, though, _it_ finally became impatient. And then the decay began. And that is why I was such a horrible creature when you met me." A pause. "As I am sure you have noticed, the disintegration is happening much faster this time."

"I—"

"How could you not notice? Perhaps the thing is panicked now that I have failed twice. Perhaps_ it_ is simply angry about your presence. In any case, it is growing weaker, and I am becoming more disgusting."

"Well, I am glad that it hates me. But I never wanted you to be hurt." She thought for a moment and then asked, "What happens if you keep fighting _it_ forever?" He didn't say anything. "Erik?"

"I do not wish to discuss that now." His voice was colder, which made her guess that the answer to her question was not happy. "Do you want to know anything else?"

"Hm. I can't think of any more questions about your life. I do have some general questions. Like the thing has been around forever, right? But then—oh! I forgot to tell you. About when I was younger." She told Erik about her crazed landlord and how he had witnessed either Erik's or Alexander's inability to die. "So he was desperate to become invincible, no matter what the cost."

"Delightful to know that I have been adversely affecting your life in one way or another for years. All because some idiot believed that my existence was enviable."

"That ritual he was trying to do. A hundred sacrifices. That's how another thing would be conjured?"

"The details of what is required are murky, and your landlord was playing with fire. Someone did find a way to reactivate the thing in the late 1800's."

She sat up straight. "What? What do you mean? I thought the thing had been around forever."

A pause. "No. There was at least one break. In the 1700's. And then perhaps Alexander's predecessor's predecessor found a way to bring _it_ back. There were plenty of bloody conflicts during the 1800's that some idiot could have used to disguise a hundred sacrifices, if that is the way."

"How was there a break?" she eagerly asked. Again he was quiet. And she understood that this question was related to her previous one. "Because someone fought _it_, right? Someone destroyed it?"

"I wish to focus on your voice now," he said. "Erik misses your voice."

She knew better than to push, especially when he sounded so broken. "Okay." Christine stood. "I'm ready when you are."

It felt wonderful to escape into music. His playing was not perfect as a result of the pain in his hands. Her voice was nowhere near its best due to the stress in her life. But the hour was still very therapeutic.

When the violin quieted, she softly asked, her face flushed, "Can I see you?" He answered by stepping out of the shadows, a slightly hunched black figure. "Can I touch you, or will it hurt?"

"Yes to both," he replied.

She approached and threw her arms around his neck, and he held her. They both sighed. She pressed kisses to his neck, temple, and masked cheek. When she looked up, his yellow eyes were very confused. She had more freedom to be affectionate now, but of course Erik wouldn't understand this. Christine didn't answer any unspoken question that night. She didn't have many answers yet, taking life moment by precious moment.

"Do not forget to bring your schoolwork," he said when they separated.

"I won't. Thank you. See you next week?"

"Of course." And he was gone.

She was alone again. Without Raoul and Meg, her next weekend was devoid of anything but studying and research.

And a horrible dream, as Lillian and Angela's tale headed toward a tragic conclusion.

The shadow consumed both girls, isolating them in a frigid fog. Terrified, ill, and tired of spells that didn't work - Angela finally tried to come up with new ideas. "Maybe I should get the Reverend."

"No," said Lillian as they huddled together in the cold woods. "He'd just look at me the same way. No men."

"But all the powerful people are men! The heads of churches. The government. Maybe they could help!"

Lillian crossed her arms. "They can't help!"

Angela placed her head into her hands and leaned over, rocking back and forth. "Then I don't know what else to do! I feel terrible, like I have the flu. I can't go on like this. I have to do something."

Lillian stared into the distance, her face becoming expressionless. "Maybe you should just leave then. You didn't ask for any of this like I did. You're right."

Angela rapidly turned toward her. "What? Well, I won't leave forever. But I need…I need to get away for a little while. The holidays are coming. I want to spend them with Jeffrey. The Johnsons are throwing a party next Saturday night. Did you know that? It's always a big event. I want to go to that. And set up a tree. I remember all that. Cider. Eggnog. Stockings."

"Then go!" snapped Lillian. "I'm not keeping you here."

"But something else is keeping me here," she moaned.

"No, it's not!" Lillian exclaimed, unable to hide her hurt. She gave Angela a shove on the arm. "Go! You can leave anytime you want! Go!"

Angela stood, a blanket dropping from her shoulders. "But—"

"Leave me alone! I want to be alone now! Go enjoy your holidays!"

"I will be back," she murmured. Disoriented, Angela started to stumble away. It took some effort, but she was finally able to pull herself out of the grasp of the darker force. Once she was gone, Lillian collapsed to her knees and started to cry. Because she knew that there was no helping her. Angela couldn't save her. Lillian had only stayed and played silly magic games because she loved Angela. For once in her life, Lillian hadn't been lonely.

And now she was hurting the one person who had shown her real kindness. She was slowly destroying Angela. Although she lingered for a few days longer, Lillian knew it was time to leave.

And she especially knew this as the shadows became thicker one night. A chill entered the air. Someone was approaching. Alexander had finally found her. Her heart racing, Lillian ran back to Mildred's house and climbed the stairs two at a time. She passed Mildred's bedroom and was stopped by the sound of the woman's voice.

"You're evil," rasped Mildred from her bed, her face pale and gaunt. Lillian looked in and stared with horror. A bit of spittle was at the corner of Mildred's mouth. She struggled to sit up. Her tangled grey hair hung at the sides of her face. She looked frightening, on the edge of life and death. "You're evil. I've always know it." She smiled sickly. "He's coming for you, you know? He's taking what is his. You'll never make it!" She laughed. And then her smile vanished. Her eyes closed, and Mildred fell back against the pillow with a sickening thud.

With a sob, Lillian ran to her room and began to hurl everything into her carpetbag. Maybe she could get a train ticket tonight. Otherwise, she'd just have to run until she lost him again.

Before she left, Lillian wrote a quick note to Angela_. It was time for me to go. Thank you for everything. I'll never forget you and your kindness. I wish you all the happiness in the world. Love always, Lillian._

Her arms felt weak as she tugged her belongings down the stairs and outside. As the air grew colder, she began to run with only the stars and a crescent moon to light her way. Alone again. She'd spend the rest of her life alone and running.

She stumbled and fell, wincing as her hand fell onto a sharp rock. Her palm began to bleed. Her knee ached. With a groan, she started to pull herself up.

A chilly voice behind her. "Nice night for a stroll?" She gasped and turned. A soft cry of despair escaped her lips. "Yes, it is me. How are you, dear Lillian? Still running and walking, I see. Still enjoying your gift. And yet—where is my part of the bargain?" He closed his eyes. "I don't hear the sweet cry of a child."

"Alexander. Oh. How are you? You…you surprised me. Yes, I'm very grateful for my gift." She finally found her voice and tried to hide her fear. "I haven't gotten to my part yet. Don't I have time to do that? I'll do it later. I promise."

He softly chuckled. "Theoretically, you have time. But we both know that there is a minor problem with our arrangement, don't we? There was more to you, wasn't there? You thought you could outsmart me, didn't you?"

She rapidly shook her head. "No. No, I just hadn't gotten to it yet. I thought I had time."

"So you are running away and hiding for the thrill of it?"

"No. I just…no one back home knew why I was suddenly better. They were afraid of me. I had to go somewhere else."

"M. Yes. I do know what it is like to be a freak," Alexander replied. He looked down for a moment, as if in thought, and then glared at her. "And I will never go back to that."

Lillian started to back away. "I'll give a baby to you. Just give me time!" Suddenly, she literally couldn't move. "No!" she begged. "Please. Please let me go!"

He walked toward her, slowly, as she struggled. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I am afraid that I do not have time for this game. A much grander life awaits me than chasing after stupid, manipulative girls. Besides, you have no intention of fulfilling your part of our bargain." Alexander closed his eyes and inhaled, one of his fingers rising to stroke her cheek. "I hear distant music. There are holiday festivities tonight, yes? Singing. Dancing. Food. Do you hear it, Lillian? Do you smell it?"

"Yes," she whispered. She did somehow. Even though they were far away from the holiday party.

"I think we should attend. Don't you? I think it will be fun. Let's put aside our differences. And have a bit of fun."

"What? Why-?"

He grabbed her upper arm and roughly pulled. Lillian didn't understand at first, as he dragged her along at a pace that seemed too fast for a human being. Through the woods and down a dirt road. Into the town. She nearly fell several times, but he didn't pause. "What are you doing?" she kept asking during the endless walk. "Please let me go," she kept pleading. "I'll give you what you want!" They headed down the street of a quaint little neighborhood and to a two-story brick home. Bright lights shown from inside. "Merry Christmas!" said a cheerful sign outside next to a green wreath with red berries. Voices and music came from inside. Judy Garland's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas._"_

"What are you doing?" Lillian wailed, still trying to pull away from his iron grip.

Alexander threw open the door to the house. He pulled her inside, into warmth and the smell of cinnamon. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light and looked around. The women were in the front room, a collage of furs and pretty holiday-colored dresses. They were admiring the tree decorations and display of food, all of them holding little cocktails. And there was Angela, sitting to the side and trying to look interested. Her hands were tightly folded in her lap, and her face was still pale. The other women ignored her.

Deep laughter emanated from another room. Alexander dragged her forward. To the men. The men were smoking cigars and also drinking, still chuckling at some joke. A fire roared in the hearth. Alexander slammed the door behind them.

And that's when Lillian understood. Her face fell in horror.

"Good evening!" Alexander announced. The men instantly quieted and turned toward him in surprise. A shadow fell over the room. A spell fell over them. "Happy Holidays. Lovely party you have here. But! There is one small problem. You all forgot to invite Lillian to this little gathering, didn't you?" He tsked. "That was rather rude, wasn't it? I mean—just look at her! Isn't she utterly exquisite? Can't she stay and enjoy a bit of merriment?"

Thirty pairs of clouded male eyes turned toward her. The fire went out in a whoosh of black smoke, leaving them with only a dim bulb for light. Someone dropped their cocktail glass, and it shattered on the wooden floor. "She's beautiful," one man murmured.

"The most beautiful woman in the whole world," another agreed.

Lillian screamed as they slowly approached her, heavy shoes clunking against the floor and hands outstretched. She turned and pulled on the doorknob, but the door was held fast by whatever terrible magic Alexander possessed.

"This is what you get when you try to outwit me," Alexander whispered. "You'll conceive a child tonight whether you like it or not. Oh, but you are not going to like it, are you? Pity."

"Let me out!" she screeched, clawing at the door. At the mercy of over two dozen hands and breaths that smelled of cigar smoke and alcohol. They grabbed at her. Someone yanked her hair, pulling her head back at a painful angle. Several of them leaned into sniff her. She was taken down to the frigid floor as she scratched at their faces and eyes in a futile attempt to escape.

A voice at the door. A beautiful and familiar voice. "Lillian! Is that you in there? What's happening? Why are you here? What's wrong?"

"Alexander!" Lillian shrieked through tears as her sanity faltered. "Help me! Please help me!" Her voice was muffled by rough and unfamiliar lips. She attempted to bite them, but the men seemed unable to feel pain.

The thing had planned for this, had manipulated the situation to arrive at this place and time. Alexander calmly allowed Angela inside and shut the door behind her, again locking it. The other women must have been under their own spell, as they were unaware of the commotion—of what their husbands were about to do. Even Jeffrey, while he was toward the back of the deranged crowd, was unable to focus.

Angela took one look and also began to scream. "Oh my God! Stop it! What are you doing?! Stop!" She tried to block them with outstretched hands, tried to pull them away from her friend, but the men easily pushed her away. "Stop it! What are you all doing? No!" Lillian continued to fight and scream as hands traveled up her dress and over her skin.

Finally, Angela grasped that this was all Alexander's fault. He was the only calm man in the room, his hands folded behind his back. He watched Lillian's struggle with indifference. Angela ran toward him and grabbed his left arm. "Stop! Please stop this! Alexander? Please stop!"

"She owes me!" Alexander snapped, pulling away with a scowl. "She did this to herself."

"Please don't do this!"

And then the thing whispered—_I want her. A willing conception will lead to an obedient heir. I want her._

Alexander finally looked at Angela as though noticing her for the first time. "Hm. Do you want to take her place?"

Angela stepped back. "What?"

"I said, do you want to take her place? A bargain? You for her. But it will be better for you. A calm evening with only your husband on top of you? As opposed to fifteen strangers?"

"Wh-What?" Angela was shaking her head. "No. I can't. I can't do that!" She started to cry. "I can't…."

"Suit yourself. This should only continue for, oh, another five hours or so." Lillian screeched, her nose bloody and her face bruised as she continued to fight. The fabric near her neckline tore with a horrible ripping sound. Her screams rang in Angela's ears. Angela clutched her head and sunk to her knees, but she couldn't drown out the shrieks of her friend.

"All right!" Angela finally shouted at the top of her lungs. "Fine!" She clutched her head and sobbed. "Fine! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"

Alexander's lip twitched upwards. The men stopped terrorizing Lillian, stepping and crawling backward. They stared around the room as though they didn't know where they were. Several even collapsed. Lillian crawled out from under them and toward the farthest corner of the room, shaking with sobs and unaware of what had transpired.

"Very well," said Alexander, staring at Angela. "Stand up. Get a hold of yourself. We must go make it all official. And, if you change your mind, I will set the whole town upon her. Do I make myself clear? Do not toy with me! You understand!? _I will not go back to being a freak!_" Angela had only half-climbed to her feet when he began to drag her away.

The final scenes were blurry as the thing began to detach itself from Lillian. The men muttered that they'd had too much to drink and were feeling ill. They helped up those who had fallen. Their wives complained as they were forced to leave the party early. Only Jeffrey looked around the house in confusion, softly calling, "Angela? Angela?" Finally, he noticed Lillian huddling by herself in a corner. He walked toward her. She started to flinch away. But he only asked in a frightened voice, "Have you seen Angela?"

Lillian blinked at him. She looked down at herself and then at the empty room. And maybe her scrambled mind finally began to piece it all together—how she'd escaped an even more horrible fate. "No!" she cried out. Lillian jumped up and ran out of the house. Jeffrey went back to softly calling his wife's name.

Christine awoke, a cold sweat upon her forehead. She curled into a ball beneath the covers, feeling even more alone and vulnerable. She wished that she had a warm pair of arms to hold her. The next dream might finish their story. Now that she had gotten to know them, seeing the ending was all the more painful.

How utterly unfair that Erik had been doomed by an act of love during a moment of unbearable evil. Then again, life could be unfair. How many aid workers and humanitarians had been murdered overseas? Kindness did not exempt people from reality.

_Still._ Still, she wished for some sense of justice in the world. Christine resented her strange gift for not being nearly enough to fix this.

Her weekend was long and frustrating as she tried to catch up on schoolwork. On Sunday, she finally stopped trying to do anything and just sat on the couch watching bad television.

She expected Erik to contact her early in the week. She eagerly looked forward to it, but her phone remained silent. And she grew worried. She even sent a text back to the number. "Are you okay?" Christine received no response. She didn't hear from him the entire week, and a slight feeling of panic welled up in her chest. She even went to the music room on Thursday night. There was no humming.

When Meg called on Friday night, Christine was finally given a reprieve from her isolation. Hearing her friend's voice did her heart some good.

"Things are going okay," Meg said. "I may be able to get a position as a dance teacher. It doesn't pay much, and it's with little kids. But I think I'll like it."

"That's fantastic," said Christine, settling back onto her couch. "I'm so happy for you."

"How are you?"

"Busy. School. The usual."

"How's Raoul?"

Christine paused. No reason to lie about it. They'd both changed their relationship status to a private setting, thereby avoiding questions. "We're taking a break."

"What?"

"Yeah. Things just weren't working out as well."

"I'm sorry," said Meg. "Gosh. I thought you two would wind up getting married. At least before…you know."

"Yeah," murmured Christine. "I sometimes think that I depended on him a little too much. Like I wanted him to make me feel more normal. Maybe that was too much of our relationship."

"Yeah. You did feel pretty bad about yourself." They chatted about this for a little while, about growing up and figuring out what you really wanted, who you were. They talked about summer plans. They were about to discuss getting together. But then there was a soft knock at Christine's front door. The sun had set about twenty minutes ago. "Oh. Hold on a second." She looked through the peephole. Her heart jumped, and she swallowed. "Hey. Meg. I'll call you back later, okay?"

"You all right?"

"Yeah. Definitely. Just have to talk to the delivery guy."

Meg had smartened up. "Say 'banana' if you need me to call 9-11."

Christine uneasily laughed. "Orange. I'm fine. I promise."

"Okay. If you're sure. Talk to you later." They hung up.

Christine took a deep breath and opened the door. "Erik?"

He stared down at her. "I should not be here," he nearly whispered.

"No. It's okay. I told you that you were welcome. I'm happy to see you." She held the door open. He stared at her apartment as though it were an alien spaceship. "Are you okay? Is something wrong?" His hands clenched. "Erik?" She couldn't understand his mumbled words the first time. "What?"

"I thought about feeding it. I wanted to feed it. So it would stop."

She took a shaky breath. "Did you…feed it, Erik?" Even as she asked the question, she didn't close the door on him.

A long pause. "No. No. For you. You would not want that." She started to feel relief. Then he said, "_It_ took a finger. So I cannot play the violin well. It took an index finger. I wanted my finger back. I nearly fed it. But I did not."

"Oh. God. Okay. Erik, come in. It'll be okay. Please come in." She put a hand behind his back and ushered him inside, closing the door behind them. "Please sit down." She struggled to think of what kind of medical aid she could offer, trying not to focus on how helpless she felt. What could she do for him? How could she stop this? "Are you bleeding?"

"No." He was attempting to keep his voice steady. "It is a hideous yellow stub. Like the rest of me. I should not have bothered you with this."

"Erik—"

"You asked what would happen if I fought_ it_ forever?"

"Yes. But we don't have to talk about that right now. Let me get you—"

"Here. You might as well know." He thrust out several pieces of paper. She took them and looked down, realizing they were a printed copy of a very old diary entry. _The Talking Corpse Chained to the Wall. _She quickly read through it, feeling her heart plunge. "That is the end," he said, voice quiet. "That is how to kill _it_. That is the only way, Christine."


	31. Chapter 31

**So this is a more transitional chapter with a bit of (kind of sad?) fluff. The next will start us up the hill toward the climax. Thank you all! Hope you're enjoying the season!**

**Read and Review!**

_Its_ words were again more like distant thoughts. _Forty years of torture, if you continue to disobey. Or maybe it's only thirty-nine, now? All over a stupid girl who will abandon you the second her little friend proposes. You are pathetic._

He had learned to ignore the voice and the horrible pain. But, as he rested in the coffin thinking only of his angel, his hand had suddenly felt odd. Along with the ache, something felt off-balance. He had pulled his hand up to his face, nearly choked on his own breath, and then flew into a rage. He had risen from the coffin like Dracula at sunset and hurled the violin against the wall. _It_ had laughed at him.

He had gone outside and blindly searched for victims. Who wouldn't be missed? Drunks and dealers. Yet they wouldn't satisfy the thing's appetite. And she would know by the sounds in her head. She would know if he killed again.

And then he was furious with her. For trying to convince him that there was hope when there was none. Of course _she_ could keep on looking through her rose-colored glasses! She had her entire life ahead of her. And when she finally realized that nothing could be done for poor disgusting Erik, she would return to that delightful life. With that golden-haired boy and golden-haired children and—Hell! A goddamned Golden Retriever.

And so who was she to make demands of him?! Her fingers weren't falling off! Her skin wasn't sprinkling to the ground like snowflakes in summer. She could shrug, smile, and say, "Ah well. At least I tried. Good luck, Erik."

Of course, even as he had these thoughts, he still loved her. Staring at his four-fingered yellow hand, he was simply tired of her endless optimism, tired of trying to find hope that didn't exist. And so he had brought her the diary entry. Now she could see the end for herself. He was so tired and sick and hopeless…and helpless. He was so very damned.

After she read the diary entry, she let the pages drop to her side. "Erik. Please sit down."

"But that is the end!" he snapped. "But please—do continue with your calm demeanor. After all, that is not your fate, is it?" Didn't she understand? And yet—what did he want from her? To really hate him?

No. He wanted her to accept reality.

"This isn't going to be the end. You're not going to rot alone against a wall."

"Are you any closer to fixing it?" he retorted. Her face fell. "Of course you're not! Because it cannot be fixed." He began to pace in her tiny entryway. "If you were anyone else, I would simply ignore you and your ridiculous reassurances. Scorn you. Hate you. Gag you simply to shut you up!"

She did lean back slightly. "Erik—"

"But as I…as I love you, I listen to you. Because your voice and your presence, they are enough to make me forget your inane words."

"Please sit down."

"That is what will happen no matter what you say!"

"All right. I won't tell you that I can fix it right now. And I won't tell you that your poor body won't continue to…to be hurt." Her voice cracked here. "But I will tell you that you're not going to be alone like that. You're not going to suffer alone. Or die alone. Okay? Can you at least believe that?"

He finally stopped pacing. And he looked at her face and saw sincerity. Yet still- "Are you going to keep me in a back room or a basement? Perhaps you will tell Chagny and your future children that I am an exotic pet or a foul smelling piece of furniture? Honestly?"

"Erik—"

He grabbed the pieces of paper and waved them in her face. "I should not have come here." He glanced at the phone in her other hand. "Did I interrupt your conversation with that boy? I do apologize. But, darling, perhaps you should tell him of your plans to keep me near. He might prefer a dog or a cat—instead of a talking corpse. I don't play fetch all that well. I could only play…dead…yes?" He laughed at his own joke. "Yes. You must tell Chagny that."

With a hand on her forehead, she stepped in front of the door. "Sit down," she softly commanded.

He quieted but didn't sit. He wasn't quite a dog. And he could only picture a pack of pretty blonde children poking at him with sticks as he slowly rotted away.

She held out her hands. "Can I see your finger?"

"You mean my lack of a finger? Why? Why would you subject yourself?"

"Please let me see your finger."

He ripped off his black glove to reveal his mangled right hand. _"There."_

She stared at the disaster with no expression, one of her hands rising to cup it. "I'll be right back. Don't move." He stood there ridiculously for ten seconds. Christine returned with a small bottle that contained a white substance. She squeezed some of it into her palm and then began to rub the cold lotion over his hand, over his fingers and down to his wrist. She slipped the glove from his other hand and did the same. He checked to make sure that hand still had five fingers. His dry, horrible flesh cooled somewhat. And her fingers felt wonderful as they massaged his skin.

Then, she took his mangled hand and kissed it. She kissed his remaining fingers and the remains of the destroyed one. He slowly took his hand back. Then he finally did sit on one of her wobbly kitchen chairs. She sat down beside him. There was a long moment of silence. His anger of was gone. Still, he felt like a freak.

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "You can help me do research."

"I doubt I will be much help."

"Well, I'm not giving up."

"But there will be a point where you do. There must be. An engagement. A marriage. A child. Sooner or later, that day will come."

She sighed. "I might as well tell you." He glanced at her. "Raoul and I aren't together anymore. So those things—they're so far off. I can't even think about them right now."

He felt strangely inside. "Why are you not together? Wasn't Chagny rather perfect? Hell, I would trade four more fingers to have his…." He was going to say 'face,' but really it was so much more—"To have his everything."

"Raoul has had a very nice life," she softly agreed. "It's not perfect. But, well, he wanted to go the Bahamas. I wanted to stay here. There was an argument. And I just…." Her voice tapered off.

He had always expected to feel tremendous joy and victory at this moment, when he'd dreamt of it. But now he only felt that burning shame. The moment passed quietly.

She continued, "Anyway, I want to focus on this right now."

For the first time, he closely looked at her home. It was a horrible mess. Grimy dishes on the counter and in the sink. Dust on every surface and crumbs on the floor. Clothes strewn over her couch. The extent of her care finally began to sink in.

"Will you help me?" she asked, gesturing to the piles of books.

He followed her without a word. She noticed a laundry pile of female underwear on the floor and quickly kicked it into another room, avoiding his gaze. Determined to not make this easy, the thing forced a gust of wind into the room and blew the papers around. They ignored _it._ When the air became too cold, she grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. She was no longer afraid.

Even though he had seen most of these books years before, he was patient as she explained them to him. Hearing her voice and being in her company was worth a remedial education in demonology. As the hour grew later, shoulder to shoulder, they searched together. And even though his hope had long been extinguished, hers was bright enough to sustain them for a few hours.

Around eleven, she yawned and rubbed her eyes.

"I think you should sleep," he said.

"I guess so," she replied. "At least tomorrow is Saturday!" She started to get up. "Are you going to stay? I mean, I want you to, if you're comfortable here."

He hesitated. "I may go. But I will be back."

She kissed the side of his head. "Goodnight, Erik. I'm so glad you came by."

_It_ whispered horrible things about her. He didn't listen to any of the vile lies. He was surrounded with her presence, her scent and energy. Although still in pain, he tidied up her home a bit. Putting plates and cups in the dishwasher. Straightening the books and papers. He swept. He fixed a few of her dead light bulbs and cleared some cobwebs.

Around two in the morning, he started to put his gloves back on and step outside, needing to clear his head.

A sharp pain sliced through his body. Each remaining finger ached and twitched. The meaning wasn't lost. _It_ would eventually take everything.

* * *

><p>She saw the end that night.<p>

Angela stopped struggling as Alexander dragged her toward the outskirts of the town. He pulled her into a shiny black Buick and slammed the door closed. Big band music played on the radio. As she stared blankly out the window, Alexander drove about ten miles. He turned onto a dirt road, and the car rumbled over gravel and rocks. Civilization disappeared, and forest took over. They were soon beside a large sparkling lake that hadn't yet frozen over. Bare grey trees surrounded them.

She refused to look at him as she climbed out of the car. Alexander shrugged and said, "You think I am completely satisfied? I prefer a high society sort of girl. Not a country bumpkin. Unfortunately, we'll both have to play with the hand we're dealt."

Alexander led her to an abandoned one-roomed white house with peeling paint and rotted wood. It offered no warmth as the frigid air seeped through the door and tiny frosted windows. He started a fire as Angela looked toward the exit. His angry voice interrupted her thoughts. "You try to escape, and you know what I'll do to her. And I'll kill you as well. Understand? The best thing you can do for everyone is comply. Life is not fair. Believe me, I know."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her head whipping back around. "What are you? What do you want?"

"What I want is to not exist anymore," he softly replied, turning back to stoke the fire. "Once it's done, the Master will take over. And I can simply fade into oblivion."

"The Master?"

"Yes, girl. The Master is in charge of everything. You. And Lillian. And me. And we all must learn to accept that."

And then he began to prepare for the ritual. Angela was partially hypnotized as passages were whispered and candles burned. Still, during every step she remained frightened and angry. This had never been her bargain, her choice. Sensing the problem, Alexander finally said, "I am going to make this an even better deal for you. I will give you something else in exchange for an heir. What do you want?"

Her gaze remained on the fire. He'd given her a wool blanket to drape over her shoulders. "Nothing."

"Oh, come now. Don't be a little martyr. Money? Beauty? Everyone wants something."

"I want you to disappear."

He laughed. "Nice try. Some women have wished to forget. Would you like that? All of this to be a bad dream?"

"I don't ever want to forget." Angela desperately tried to think of some way to outsmart him. "I wish you couldn't hurt anyone else. I wish you'd be kind. I wish you'd show mercy."

"You'll receive only what the Master wants to give you. How about a mansion? A new and improved husband?" She remained silent, her jaw clenched. "You don't want anything else? Fine. You still agreed to exchange your womb for Lillian's. That will be the bargain."

During all of this, Christine saw glimpses of Lillian trying to find them. She used her last remaining connections to the thing, listening to the air and searching her dreams for clues. She got closer and closer, clawing her way through branches that scratched her cheeks. The night of the final ritual, she could feel the darkness crackling like electricity. She ran toward them, gasping for breath. She felt them, the love in Angela and the hatred in Alexander. She would stop this, even if it meant giving Alexander a child. She would save Angela.

Smoke from the little house was visible above the bare trees. Lillian ran toward it, sensing that time was desperately short.

The candles were all lit. The fire flickered, and the sickly sweet smell, like rotting fruit, filled the room. Angela removed her clothing, her eyes completely clouded over now.

As Alexander read the words that would condemn Angela's first male descendant to become a lifelong servant, the Shadow Creature appeared in full form, a large black cloud. Except, for a moment, _it_ was free and not contained in a human being. The blob quivered like gelatin, stretching and vibrating. Then_ it_ divided into two pieces like an amoeba. An eerie silence followed as the two parts hovered. Alexander's face was raised toward the sky, and his eyes were closed. His arms were spread, a book in one of them. His voice echoed. Angela stood with her arms limp at her sides and her head tilted. She rocked back and forth.

_Whoosh._ One half of the creature folded around Angela, embracing her. And then it seemed to dissolve, permanently meshing with her and disappearing beneath her flesh. She lurched and stumbled. The other half vanished back into Alexander. Angela collapsed with a thud as the thing completely invaded her body.

"No!" A scream from outside. Lillian felt the change. She was too late. Still, she rushed inside the house with her arms outstretched. And then she collapsed. She fell on legs that would no longer support her, weeping.

Alexander walked toward her slowly, his hands behind his back. Shadows danced over them both as the fire dimmed. "Ah, Lillian. You didn't actually think you got to keep your part of the bargain, did you? Can't get something for nothing in this world." He sighed. "You know far too much, you know? Such a pity it has come to this. You had so much potential."

"Please," Lillian begged. "Please let her go! I'll give you the child! Please! Please! No!"

"Too late," he replied. "Angela's going to give me a wonderful heir. And you're useless to me now. Goodnight Lillian." Kneeling down as she squirmed and struggled, he placed a large hand over her mouth and nose. She stared up in terror as he suffocated her, as her last tears dripped onto his cold fingers. The light faded from her eyes. Her body went limp, and her head rolled to the side. "Go to sleep," he murmured, closing her eyelids with his index fingers. "Be at peace."

When Angela awoke only minutes later, she instantly crawled over to the body of friend and began to sob. "No, no, no," was all she could say as she clasped Lillian's ice-cold hand. "Please no, no, no."

Alexander approached, and Angela lunged at him, screaming and cursing and crying. He easily held her back with one hand as her fists and legs flew at him. He said, "You should have bargained for her life, too, I guess." Finally, she sunk to the ground sobbing. When Angela was too exhausted to do anything else, on her hands and knees staring at the floorboards, he said, "We can give her a proper burial." She didn't respond. "Or we can leave her here. It's really up to you."

Shivering, Angela finally let him lead her away. She was no match for him, and her will to fight was fading. Her sanity was nearing its end. Alexander dug a deep grave at a corner of the cemetery, and they buried Lillian in a small wooden box. It was Angela who insisted upon: _May one of us finally know peace._

"Do not feel so badly," Alexander said as he drove her home. "There was nothing you could have done. There is no spell or manmade weapon. You had absolutely no chance."

"I hate you," she told him before climbing out of the car. "I never knew I could hate anyone so much."

"Good," he replied with a single nod. "Hatred is good. It's cleansing. The more you hate your child, the more you'll please the Master."

"I'll never give you a child."

"Oh, but you will."

As she stared up at her home, it briefly dawned on Angela that Alexander could no longer hold Lillian over her head. She could take the same path Lillian had, running for the rest of her life. But she only had that thought for a moment. Alexander honked the horn of the car three times and then drove away. Jeffrey ran outside in his bare feet, trousers, and a white undershirt. He cried out and embraced her. And she hugged him and took in his warmth, clutching onto her husband for dear life. But along with actual love, a strange and powerful lust also took over that evening. He carried her to their bedroom, forgetting that she'd been missing for months. They forgot everything. And then the inevitable happened, just as Alexander had predicted.

The next memories were brief and eerie flashes of life. Angela acted as though nothing had ever happened. She smiled and socialized and never spoke the name of her friend. She went to church gatherings and picnics. She made love to her husband. But Jeffrey detected that something was off. There was a blankness in her eyes. A hollowness in her pretty voice. A pallor to her skin.

And then she completely ignored her pregnancy. Her stomach wasn't overly swollen, and she never experienced morning sickness or cravings. Still, by the sixth month, people began to suspect that she was expecting. She ignored their comments.

"Oh, does someone have big news?"

Or, "Ah. Going to be needing a bigger house soon, m?"

Or when one of Jeffrey's friends roughly patted his back and said, "You two been busy, huh?"

When Jeffrey tried to bring the subject up one evening, suggesting that they visit the doctor, she replied, "What are you going on about? You're so annoying! Leave me alone!" The pain on his face was evident. He knew something was wrong with his wife.

And then finally—Angela snapped. Or maybe the thing pushed her over the edge, constantly telling her that this was_ its_ baby. Not hers. _You're not worthy of being the child's mother. You let your friend die. What kind of horrible person lets their friend die?_ During the eight month, she rose from bed in the middle of the night. With silent footsteps, she walked into the kitchen wearing a white cotton nightgown. Taking a large carving knife from a drawer, she aimed it directly at her stomach. Jeffrey came down and, after staring in horror, dove at her. She fought him, but he finally grabbed the knife from her hand, slicing her palm in the process.

They restrained her at a state hospital and kept her heavily sedated. They'd heard of similar occurrences before, the nurses said. Some women didn't handle motherhood well. Some women were terrible mothers.

A baby's cry. Red-stained blankets and towels. And later another woman's voice in the hallway. "I came as soon as I could. The weather was bad most of the way. What's happening? Jeffrey said she—she—"

"We don't think she's going to make it. The bleeding was too much. She's fading fast despite our best efforts. I'm very sorry, ma'am."

"I can't believe this! And the baby?"

"We're pretty sure that the baby will be fine. It's really a miracle. Like an angel was protecting her the whole time."

Somewhere, an evil whisper convinced Jeffrey to hang himself that night. _She doesn't love you. She doesn't want you. She tried to kill herself and the child just to escape you._

And Angela was given a single moment of relief before she died.

"Renie, what is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Boy or girl?"

"It's a baby girl. A beautiful baby girl! She has black curls just like you. And beautiful dark eyes. She's lovely, Angela."

Angela made Irene promise to never let Madeleine have children. But there was intense disbelief in Irene's eyes. This was obviously not a vow that she would keep.

Somewhere, Alexander grinned.

* * *

><p>Erik was gone by the time Christine awoke and walked to her living room on shaky legs. There was a short note.<p>

_Back later. –E_

She looked around her apartment and instantly noticed the difference. Her heart warmed.

Christine took a slow seat on the couch and picked up a textbook, knowing if she didn't get work done that weekend, there'd be no saving her GPA. She got up once to make a pot of coffee. Her eyes fell on the pages of the horrible diary entry. _There has to be another way._ _That can't be the end. _And yet Angela's and Lillian's story had given her few answers. Only that the thing was very adaptable.

Christine tried to get some work done. In her spare time, she browsed the Internet. On her social networking page, she saw that Raoul had put up a picture of him with a big group of friends at a Mexican restaurant. They were all holding pink margaritas into the air. His smile wasn't entirely happy, but at least he didn't seem lonely.

Erik didn't return that evening.

But she had another dream.

She found herself on a dark city street. The time period had to be decades later than Angela's lifetime. But the cars parked along the curbs were older models. Maybe it was the seventies or eighties? And then she saw him. Erik. A few inches shorter but still skinny. He was with a group of other boys, and they were harassing a middle-aged man, pushing him back and forth. She was seeing Erik's time with the street gang. There was the teenage girl, several years older than Erik, kneeling on the pavement. Erik reached down and touched her blonde head. The girl screamed. Erik jerked back, and the other boys looked up in surprise and then anger.

Christine saw a brief glimpse of the girl's face as a police siren wailed.

She saw herself.

No, that didn't make any sense. She hadn't even been born.

It was her mother. Erik had touched her mother that night. And her mother had screamed.

Christine sat up in bed and gripped the covers. What the heck did that mean?!

Is that how her mother had known things? Is that how she'd received this horrible gift in the first place? Were they all connected?

What if her mother was somehow still the answer? But Christine had absolutely nothing except photographs. Her mother had been in a psychiatric hospital, and they had probably destroyed her few belongings. Or given them to her father, and he had likely thrown them away in his grief. She dug through his boxes one last time just to make sure she hadn't missed anything. Nothing.

Christine finally wrote to Madeleine, not caring if she scared or annoyed the older woman. She was desperate.

_Hi Maddy,_

_I hope you are well. I don't mean to bother you again. I just wanted to make sure that you hadn't remembered anything else about my mother. Anything she might have said to you? I wish I could talk to her. I can't seem to find answers anywhere else._

_Thank you for all your wonderful help._

_Christine_

She hadn't mentioned Erik this time. So maybe Madeleine would be open to replying. If not - Christine's stomach and heart clenched with the truth. If not, she was running out of ideas.

Maddy e-mailed her back late that afternoon.

_Hi Christine,_

_I hope you are well, too. No, I'm sorry. The conversation with her was brief and strange. She didn't say anything else to me._

_Take care,_

_Maddy_

A friendly reply. But another big nothing.

Erik knocked on her door that evening, and she quickly let him inside. "How are you?" she asked.

"Missing a couple more teeth. And yourself?"

She took his hand. She was going to tell him everything, about her dreams and her mother.

But, standing there in the doorway with her mouth hanging open, Christine suddenly realized that there was a flaw in her plan to help Erik. A really obvious and silly and terrifying flaw. Every single time that she said something aloud about fighting the thing,_ it_ heard her, too. The thing would always be a step ahead of them. She and Erik could have no secrets.

Could the thing see into her mind? Maybe _it_ almost could when at its strongest but not right now. Her thoughts felt private.

So she didn't share the dreams with him. Because what if they held the answers? And what if Angela had been right in trying to outsmart it? What if the thing couldn't be killed directly? What if it had to be manipulated?

So she only swallowed her words and replied, "Um. Next week, everything is due. And I'm struggling to not set all my textbooks on fire."

Amazingly, he didn't detect her deceit. "Well, then. Let us stop you from burning down your house."

"Thank you for cleaning my house, Erik."

"It is nothing. I was bored. And if you knew how many spiders had been dwelling here, you would never sleep again." He helped her edit the papers and overdue homework. He made certain that she was prepared for her exams. Then they went back to their research that night, focusing on the Internet this time. There was a story about a ten-year-old boy supposedly becoming possessed in Brazil. He had, according to witnesses, started to walk up the wall.

"Do you think it's legit?" she asked.

"They usually are not. Combinations of mental illness, hallucinogens, and people seeking attention."

"But some of them could be real, right?"

"Why does it even matter? They have little to do with me."

She didn't answer aloud. If other people were suffering from supernatural inhabitants, then they were likely searching for ways to cure themselves. But if Erik really was the only person in the whole world who was experiencing this horror—then they had no help.

Erik removed his gloves to type, and she again saw his peeling and damaged skin. She could see it on his neck and the top of his nearly bald head. She could see with each step how much it hurt him to walk and move. His poor body was falling apart.

While he was reading, she quietly crept into the bathroom and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. She took out a bottle of skin lotion and a tube of Aloe vera gel.

Starting with the lotion, she squeezed a bit of the cold substance on her fingers. "Erik?"

He glanced at her hands. "What are you doing? I don't need anything like that."

"Did it feel bad last time?" He didn't answer. "Would you please let me? And if it feels bad, I'll stop." Some of the lotion fell off her fingers and plopped onto the floor. They both stared at the glob, and she felt her cheeks turn a little red. Well, she'd never claimed to be a nurse. Erik sighed and turned back to the computer without a word. Taking that as reluctant acceptance, she touched his neck. Gently, she massaged the lotion into his shoulders and around his ears, over dry skin and red patches and scars and lesions. He was very still. She leaned forward to glance at his masked face. His eyes were closed. "Erik?" His eyes opened. "Can I take off your mask?" He flinched to the side. She quickly continued, "I know I didn't react well the very first time, but that's because there was also a lot of…craziness then. But I saw you in the woods. Please."

"That is not what I want from you."

"I want to."

"If you become ill, do try to make it to the bathroom. I have just cleaned your god-awful floors."

She knew his anger was a way of protecting himself. She untied the strings of his mask and slowly removed it, bracing herself and trying to make sure that some of his skin didn't come off, too. Her heart did jump, and she quietly sucked in her breath. Along with the sores, he was a sickly greenish-yellow color. Paler than chartreuse but not too far off. He had no nose, and his eyes were utterly lost in their sockets. His cracked lips were tightly pressed together. She began to quietly work the gel into his cheeks and forehead and chin, ignoring the particles of flesh sticking to her fingers. After a moment, his eyes closed again. She did her best and then moved onto his hands. She said, "If you want to roll up your sleeves, I can do more."

"I think that is enough," he murmured. He started to reach for his mask.

"I think it's better for your skin if you keep the mask off."

"It is not better for you."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, well you will not be fine if I looked like that." He gestured to the pages of the diary entry.

"I'm only trying to help you—"

"Yes, you are _trying_ to help!" he nearly yelled at her. "But this is…this is not what I want from you!"

"Then what do you want me to—"

"Nothing. You can't do anything. I do not need a caretaker." He grabbed his mask. "I need to go now."

"You don't have to."

"That is enough for tonight." She started to protest. "I said that is enough for tonight! I will see you tomorrow."

She felt her heart plunge at the realization that she was failing him. She had no answers. There was literally nothing she could do. The feeling of helplessness created a tightness in her chest and made it hard to breathe. In frustration, she swept her arm across the coffee table and knocked several books to the floor. He stared at her.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to her head as tears filled her eyes. "What's the point of being able to hear you? If I can't help, what's the point?"

"Maybe there is none," he softly replied with a shrug, taking another step toward the door. "Maybe it is simply a trait. Like the color of your lovely eyes."

"I'm sorry," she said. "For thinking there would be an easy answer. I wanted to help so much."

"There was never anything you could have done."

She threw up her hands. "Maybe we should to Europe together and look again there. You said _it_ acted strangely around Rome? Maybe the answers are there."

"I have looked there endlessly," he said. "There is nothing."

"What can I do?"

"I have told you countless times. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing I want you to do."

"Maybe I could go to the library in-"

"_Stop. _I will lose my mind if you do not stop. I don't want to be like this to you!"

She was about to ask, "Like what?!"

But suddenly Christine remembered how she had felt when getting sick at fourteen. She remembered her overprotective and paranoid father, calling her school to make sure was okay. He'd constantly asked, "How are you feeling, Christine? Can I get you anything? Are you sure you're okay? You look a little tired; maybe you should take a nap." And then last year when she thought she was getting sick again. She remembered how Raoul had stared at her—how he wouldn't believe her and wanted to take her to the hospital. The actions of her father and of Raoul were taken out of love. They'd wanted her to get better. They didn't want to lose her.

But she remembered how badly she'd wanted to feel normal, even for just a day. Even for just an hour. She'd wanted to be treated like a human being and not a china doll. Not like someone who was going to fall apart at any moment.

Erik wanted to feel normal. And she was always treating him like something that needed to be fixed—even if it was done…out of…of love.

"I'm sorry." She took a deep breath and looked at him. "Don't put your mask on yet. Please."

"_Why?"_

"Please." She approached him as he turned away. She touched the side of his head, turned him to face her, leaned in on the tips of her toes, and kissed him. A real soft kiss on his lips. He softly choked and froze. She cupped his cheek with her hand and smiled as she drew back.

"Again. Will you do it again?" he hoarsely asked. She obeyed and deepened the kiss this time. His hands reached up and grasped her shoulders as he attempted to return her affections, his dry lips moving gently against hers. But then the pain must have become too much. He jerked back and buried his face into her neck with a soft groan. His hands curled into tight fists against her back. A silent sob shook his frail shoulders. She stroked the back of his head and tried not to start crying again. "I am sorry."

She shook her head. "For what? I told you that I forgave you for last winter."

"No. For disrupting everything in your life. From the moment I met you, I have taken everything."

"I'll always believe that I was meant to find you."

To her surprise, he nodded. "Yes, I think you are right. Erik was meant to meet you. So that…. Yes. I see now."

"Erik, whatever happens, I'm going to be with you. So just stay, and we'll keep trying until the very end. I will never leave you."

He abruptly pulled back with a whispered, "No." Without taking his eyes off of her, he reached for his mask. His eyes were strange, distant and resolute.

"Where are you going?"

He backed away from her toward the door. "I love you," he said. "Thank you. For everything. But I must…think now. I must think about all this. Alone. While I can still think. While I can still make a decision. I fear it might start taking my mind soon. And I cannot let you-you-I love you. God, but I love you." And then he abruptly opened her door and stepped outside.

"Erik, stop! Where are you going?" She ran after him. But he was long gone by the time she reached her porch. The weak humming faded with him. "Please come back!"

For the umpteenth time, he had abruptly left her. But she had the sinking feeling that something was different about this time. She frantically grabbed her phone to send him a message. As she did this, it began to ring. She dully stared at the incoming number. Maddy.


	32. Chapter 32

Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! I'm happy you all enjoyed that chapter so much, as I kept reediting it. So…let's see what Maddy wants. We're getting very close to the climax chapters. In fact, the next one should start the creepiness. Happy, Happy Holidays! :)

**Read and Review!**

"Hello?"

"Hi." The reply was equally hesitant. "This is Madeleine. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. And you?" She stepped back onto her porch. Christine wanted to hang up and start searching before he got too far. Yet what if this call was important? He'd probably be impossible to find now, anyway.

"I'm okay. You sound…upset."

"Oh. I, um, I broke up with my boyfriend." A lie and a truth all rolled into one.

"Oh." Maddy's voice actually perked up. "I'm sorry. But don't worry about boys. You're so young. You'll find someone who deserves you soon enough."

"Heh. Thanks."

"You're going to be just fine. Boys. Ugh. I know they can be a pain." She laughed. "My husband is giving me a funny look. But he knows I'm right."

She forced out a chuckle. "Thanks."

"Well, I'm not sure now if this is the best time for this. But you e-mailed me. So—"

"No, it's a good time. What is it?" She sat down on the step to her porch. Christine could smell the smoke from her neighbor's cigarette. At first, she wrinkled her nose. But then the scent made her feel a little less alone.

"Well, you said you didn't have anyone left to talk to. I didn't remember anything else about your mother. But—I did look up Erik Mansart. He's alive. Now, he's about eighty-five and in a retirement home. But, according to his daughter, he's still pretty sharp. Just having a harder time seeing and walking."

It wasn't what she had been expecting. "Do you think he can help me?"

"That was the thing. I kind of didn't. So I called and spoke to him. He remembered me. I was still scared to bring up any of that. But he's the one who finally said something. Christine, your mother went to see him years ago. He remembered her!"

Her heart started pounding a little faster. "What'd she say to him?"

"She was trying to figure out the story, like you. So he told her what he could. And then Erik said…Erik Mansart said that he tried to get her into contact with someone else. But that it fell apart."

"What fell apart?"

"I don't really know. I really didn't want to know everything. But he's willing to talk to you."

"Did you tell him anything about me?" Christine asked.

"All I told him was that you asked me some questions about the past. And that you were still searching for answers. Like your mother."

"Well." She stood and headed back inside. "I'll find a way to get there, I guess."

"They're still in Nebraska. He said you could contact his daughter, Stacy, and get some help with the flight. You can even stay with her, if you'd like."

She could at least fight off hopelessness for a little while longer. "That sounds great. School ends this week, so I can get up there soon."

"Are you sure you're okay? You're really upset about a boyfriend?"

"Yes. But you've made me feel a lot better."

"All right. I'll e-mail you the information. I can't promise any of this will help you. But they sound like a nice family."

"Thank you. I'll let you know if anything ever…I'll let you know if anything good ever happens."

To her slight surprise, Maddy replied, "Yeah. Why not? If something good ever happens, give me a ring." A short pause. "Well, I'll let you go now. You have a good night."

"You, too." She hung up. And then she immediately texted Erik. _"Please come back."_

He never replied. She heard nothing from him over the next week. Christine turned in her papers and survived her exams. One _A_. And a couple of _B's_ because Erik wasn't there to take the tests for her. She'd jokingly made this request earlier. He had replied, "It is possible that someone will notice I am not you. Maybe a blonde wig would do the trick?"

Thinking of him made her smile. And it was painful. She did love him. She still wasn't sure what kind of love it was. Saving him from this supernatural nightmare was more important than figuring out a complicated relationship. But she would continue to give him real kisses and touches and to stay up late with him and to promise never to abandon him. If she could give him what he wanted, maybe Erik would allow her to give him what he needed.

She briefly ran into Raoul on campus. He was holding a half-eaten chicken sandwich when she walked by his table. Their eyes met. "Hey!" he said, dropping the sandwich. "How are you?"

"I'm good. My last test is tomorrow. So…yay!" She smiled.

"Awesome. Yep, mine was today. Think I did okay."

"I'm sure you did great."

"Heh. So." He glanced down. "You ever want to get together this summer? Have dinner or something? Just casual. To talk about…stuff."

"Um, yeah, we can maybe do that eventually. I'm a little busy this next week."

"Great. Well, I'll give you a call later in the month." She nodded. "You look a little worn out. Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just up late studying. I'll be fine." She leaned down, and they exchanged a brief hug. Then she let him go, knowing he wanted more than she could give. And went to prepare for her trip.

Christine exchanged several e-mails with Stacy. She seemed nice enough. _Yes, you're welcome to stay. One of my sons is home for the summer, but you shouldn't see too much of him. Also got two cats and two dogs, so I hope you're not allergic. But if all that sounds good, you're very welcome here._

Actually, cats and dogs sounded really nice. She'd been isolated for too long.

She texted Erik again and left him a note on the kitchen table.

_Going to do more research. Be back in a couple days. Hope to see you soon. I miss you a lot. -Christine_

With a small suitcase in hand, she took a cab to the airport. It was growing uncomfortably warm outside by the time Christine boarded her plane. Her hair stuck to her forehead. She listened to music most of the way, closing her eyes and trying not to get too hopeful. This would probably be another dead end. _Careful. Erik's cynicism is starting to rub off on you._

She slept after the drink cart passed and hit her in the elbow. She suddenly had the sensation of being somewhere darker and colder, like in a tunnel or a cavern. As the plane landed, she opened her eyes and shivered. Was that a dream? Or a memory? Or something else? She didn't have much time to think about it.

Stacy was a plump middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and a friendly face. She smiled and waved after Christine had passed the security checkpoint. "Hey there. Christine? I'm Stacy. Wow. You're younger than I thought you'd be."

"Oh?" They shook hands. "Um, it's nice to meet you."

"You, too. You have any other luggage?"

"Nope. I didn't bring much, so I carried everything on."

"Keeping things simple. I like it. Let's get out of here then. It's kind of a mess with everyone going on summer vacations." There were some awkward silences as they walked outside and into the Midwestern heat. During the drive in Stacy's silver SUV, Christine stared out the window at another state she'd never been in. She tried to imagine Irene and Maddy playing out here. Flat green plains and farmland.

Stacy turned down the radio and spoke. "So we were a little surprised by all this at first. And Dad can be real secretive about… everything to do with…. Well." Stacy side-glanced her. "He said he was going to talk to you about that. Didn't say much else."

"Oh?" Christine shifted and decided to be careful about offering information.

"Do you know about it?"

"Just a few things," she lied. "How about you?"

"I was only about eight. I just remember him coming home really late one night, and his face was white. He wouldn't talk to any of us. After that, he started going over to this neighbor's house all the time. Till it burned down."

"He never told you what he was doing?" Christine asked.

"Nope. Of course, my mother thought he was having an affair. He was so distant and distracted. They had this big fight one night. Screaming and crying and carrying on. He finally pulled her into the bedroom and told her something. Their fights stopped after that. Before Mom died, I asked her what he said that night. She said - Now you're going to think we're all crazy."

"I don't think I will."

Stacy shrugged. "She said Dad told her there was a little boy with the Devil in him. Literally. Like a possessed little boy. He was so dead serious that she actually believed him."

They were now in a suburb. Newer developments had popped up along the edges - chain restaurants, tall office buildings, and mid-income homes. The older parts of the town reminded Christine of the dreams, brick businesses connected to each other on the main street and smaller houses with chipped paint.

"What do you think about it all?" Stacy asked. "Is he completely crazy?"

"I still don't know very much."

"Wonder why he wants to speak to you then."

"I'm not sure." Her shoulders were getting increasingly tense. Was this how the entire trip was going to be?

There was a silence, and then Stacy thankfully changed over to less creepy topics. "My husband is still at work. My youngest just got a job at Pizza Hut, so he won't be home till late. My other two kids are grown up and gone. So it's mostly just you, me, and the animals." She pulled into the driveway of a newer one-story brick home.

"That all sounds great. Thank you for having me."

"Dad really wanted to speak to you. Wouldn't stop bugging me about it."

Considering the circumstances, Christine had a fairly pleasant evening. She played with their sleepy black Labrador and energetic Dalmatian. Stacy made a delicious dinner of ham and mashed potatoes. It'd been a very long time since Christine had a homemade meal. Ralph, Stacy's husband, was a large bearded man of few words. He quickly settled into an armchair with a beer after dinner. A sports game of some kind played on the television. After wishing everyone a quick good night, Christine snuck off to the guest room for privacy and to avoid any more of Stacy's questions. A grey tabby cat jumped onto her bed, and Christine made room for her on the patchwork quilt. She was only awoken once when their son came in.

Stacy wasn't very good at keeping her voice down. "Stay out of the guest room. We have company."

"Why is she here again?" asked a younger male voice.

"Wants to speak to Grandpa about ghosts."

"Uh. All right. Hey, do we have any chicken left?"

"I think there's some in the freezer. Let me go…." Their voices faded away.

When Christine awoke and cautiously made her way to the kitchen, Stacy's husband had gone to work and her son was still in bed. Stacy offered to make her pancakes, but Christine insisted on cereal and coffee. "So I'll take you over there in a couple of hours. That okay?"

"That's great." Her stomach turned nervously as she put on a nice skirt and white blouse. Christine checked her phone. Still no Erik. She'd again felt that dark, cold place in her dreams. Except it didn't feel like she was viewing the past this time; it felt more like watching live television.

Stacy drove her a couple of miles to the retirement home. The entrance of the long brick building held cozy violet and blue armchairs, along with dark wood tables and desks. Potted plants and a few flowers were scattered about. A group of elderly people laughed around a table as they played cards. Christine followed Stacy down a long carpeted hallway and to a closed door. Stacy knocked. "Dad? You have a visitor."

The door grunted opened after about ten seconds. Christine had seen glimpses of Reverend Mansart in the memories. He still had most of his hair, but now it was as white as snow. Age spots and wrinkles marked his skin. But his eyes were lucid. He stared at Christine as though he recognized her. He slowly nodded and smiled. "Yep. That is her." His voice was a little scratchy but still pleasant.

"Heh. Yes, this is Christine." Stacy scratched her head.

Christine shifted under his intense gaze. Finally, she held out a hand. "Hi. Nice to meet you."

He took her hand and squeezed it. "You, too."

Stacy backed away. "Well, I'll let you two talk. I'll be playing with my iPad in the front. Call me if you need me, k?"

"Will do." He opened the door so that Christine could step inside. She was grateful that he left the door halfway open. She didn't think an eighty-five-year-old former Reverend would have ill intentions, but the situation was still a little strange. Near the window, there was a small desk with two chairs, like at a hotel. He gestured her over to it. "We can talk over here."

Christine slowly took a seat. "Your daughter is very nice," she said, setting her notebook and pen down.

"Yep. Too nice for her own good sometimes," he replied. "Won't get into all that, though." He adjusted his glasses. "I can't see you all that well. But I think you look quite a bit like your mother, right?"

"A little bit." Christine gathered her courage, knowing she needed to get as much out of this meeting as possible. "Mr. Mansart, I—"

"Please call me Erik."

She didn't tell him that felt really weird. "Okay. I, um, I can't believe you met my mother. That's amazing. I hardly know anything about her."

"Yes. That was about twenty years ago. A young girl showed up on my doorstep. This is when my wife was still alive, and you can imagine that she had some questions. It was hard, trying to protect people without having them hate you."

"I know it is," said Christine. She thought of Raoul and Meg. "Soon, you almost don't have anyone left."

"Pretty much." He sighed and then studied her for a moment. "I have the feeling that you know more than Jocelyn did. She had lots of questions for me."

"I know some things."

"Like what?"

"About Irene and Maddy…and Erik. The other Erik. I know about Angela. And—"

"Woah there. I think you might know more than me. You know about Irene's sister?" He leaned in. "Tell me." This is what Christine had been afraid of—that she would be the one with all the knowledge. Another dead end. Still, she shared a brief version of Angela and Lillian's story with him. "How do you know all of this?" he asked.

"I talked to Maddy." Christine wasn't ready to tell him just how close she had become to Erik. Or about her strange ability.

"I didn't think Maddy had that kind of information." He eyed her closely, and she wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. Did Reverend Mansart know about her relationship with Erik? Had Madeleine said something?

Christine quickly changed the subject. "So you gave my mother information? She didn't tell you anything new?"

"That's mostly right. She knew some things already. I told her a little bit about my interactions with Irene and the-the child. But I sensed there had to be something special about Jocelyn. Why was she involved with this in the first place? So I-"

"So you what?" asked Christine.

"We'll get back to that later." Before she could protest, he asked her a little about her life. School and work. Her childhood. Nothing too personal, just friendly conversation. She asked him about his interactions with Irene. He gave a few brief and unhelpful answers. Then, before she could ask any more questions about her mother, he said that he was getting kind of tired. "But I'd like to talk to you again tomorrow."

"Well, my flight leaves in the afternoon." She also didn't think he had much information for her. This visit had pretty much been for nothing.

"We'll talk in the morning. And, if you miss your flight, we'll get you a new one. We won't make you pay for any of this."

"Thank you. All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank _you_."

She had a funny feeling in her stomach as she left but didn't know what to make of it. "Everything go well?" asked Stacy as Christine returned to the front room.

"I think so," she replied. "He was very nice."

"Good. Glad he at least talked to you."

"He wants me to come back tomorrow morning."

"What?" Stacy rolled her eyes. "Sorry. It's not you. Just wish he'd make things less complicated."

Christine had dinner one last time with them. Beans, corn bread, and a garden salad. The son was there this time, although he ate his meal in half a minute. Like Raoul's family, they had their quirks. Christine sensed that Stacy was still feeling the effects of a distant father. She seemed to be constantly trying to please a husband and son who preferred to keep to themselves. Still, they were a family. And Christine missed having people around.

She checked her phone before she went to bed. Still no Erik.

The following morning, she packed her things. Stacy said they would go directly to the airport after the retirement home. "If that was okay?"

"That's fine," said Christine. "Thank you again for having me."

"Kind of nice to have company," Stacy replied.

Christine had prepared a few more questions for him in the hopes of getting some use out of this whole trip. So far, she had absolutely nothing. How was she supposed to convince Erik that there was any hope when she was starting not to believe it?

As Stacy made herself comfortable in the front of the retirement home, Christine walked to Reverend Mansart's door by herself. As she knocked, she swore she heard an unfamiliar voice on the other side.

He opened the door. "Hello, Christine."

"Hi. How are—" She stopped speaking when two men appeared behind him.

One was probably nearing sixty-five, mostly bald and wearing a pair of thick glasses. The other was around forty, kind of handsome with a full head of dark brown hair and a strong jaw. Both were leaner and dressed in pressed black suits. The older one wore a red tie. And they were staring at her with extreme interest.

She blinked and stepped backward.

"She does look a lot like her mother," murmured the older man. He sounded like he was from England.

"But she's much more informed than Jocelyn," replied Reverend Mansart. "Didn't even need my help. She knew more than I did."

"Well, I hope she gives us better results."

"She might if you two would stop talking about her like she's not here," interrupted the younger man. He also had slight foreign accent. He smiled at her. "Hello, Christine. It's very nice to meet you."

"What's going on?" She took another step back, heart hammering.

"No. Don't be afraid," he continued, raising a hand. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to help you. We're thrilled to have found you."

"What? Why?"

Reverend Mansart spoke. "Christine. This is Johnathan. Or John." He gestured to the older one. "And Lorenzo. John tried to help your mother years ago. I brought her into contact with him. After Madeleine told me about you, I gave him another call. But I wanted to talk with you first yesterday, make sure you were…well…what we were looking for."

John spoke, "Since your mother, we hadn't been able to find anyone else who could hear. It's incredibly interesting that you're her daughter. We didn't know it could be passed on like that."

A hundred questions lingered on her tongue. So, naturally, Christine stood there staring at them with her mouth hanging open.

Reverend Mansart held the door open for her. "Come in. Please. I didn't mean to scare you. I'll explain some of this. They can explain the rest."

She hesitated and then took a slow step forward. "Please leave the door open."

They did halfway. Two more cushioned chairs had been pulled up to the small table. Several Styrofoam cups sat atop it, one half-filled with coffee. She took a slow seat, clutching her purse and looking between them.

Reverend Mansart spoke first. "When Irene first asked for my help, I looked everywhere. I'd heard of possessions, but I had no idea what was happening to her. No one did. This was beyond anything anyone had ever seen. Finally, there was someone who had at least some understanding. A priest from Italy. He's been deceased for years, but he passed along his notes. And he knew that this was something very rare. And something very dangerous. But not completely unheard of."

She slowly nodded. "I remember seeing him -" She paused, realizing her mistake, and saw their smiles.

Reverend Mansart looked at the other two men. "See?"

John nodded. "Yes, she definitely has it."

So they already knew about her odd ability. Somehow, they knew.

Reverend Mansart continued, "When all this became far too much for Irene to deal with, I contacted the priest again. He was going to take the child with him. By the time he got here, though, Irene's house was ash. The child was long gone. We both regretted not taking faster action."

"It would have been much easier to confine a child," John agreed. Christine glanced at him and continued to keep her guard up.

"The priest didn't want to start a panic, so he only shared the information with a few others," said Reverend Mansart. "Over the years, they've contacted me, asking if I've seen any sign of the child. Of course…."A grim pause. "He wouldn't be a child anymore. But I've heard nothing of him."

"There are possible sightings here and there," added John. "Just whispers and rumors. Still, we've had no luck finding him. But that's where you come in."

"What?"

John smiled at her. "You can hear things, right? See things in dreams? You have a gift?"

"I don't know if I'd call it a gift so much as a—"

"No, it's a gift," he insisted. "Not something you would have wished for. I'm sure you thought you were going mad at times. But this gift goes back a very long time from what we've seen." His voice was so hopeful. "Somehow, you've inherited it from your mother."

She hesitated, weighing how much information to give these men. "In my dreams, I saw a girl from a long time ago. Maybe the 1700's? She was helping someone—"

"Isabella," said John.

"Huh?"

"You probably saw the last girl who fixed this. Isabella. She found the host of her time. And successfully contained the evil."

Her heart leapt, and she started to forget her fear. He actually knew something! "So how does this work? How did she help?"

"We do not know everything," said John, obviously the most knowledgeable. "The records on all this are sparse. Only that this evil has been around for centuries, maybe longer. And that a few people, always women, can hear and sense _it._ Usually through dreams. And there's a belief among us that you are drawn to _it._ Like opposite sides of a magnet. Isabella was the last we know of before you and your mother. There may have been others, but their gifts were the strongest. Probably because they made direct contact with a host. In your case, it looks like the gift was passed on. Unless you have made contact with a host?"

Christine forced herself to maintain eye contact as she said, "Not that I know of. I've just had lots of dreams."

"Kind of what I thought," said John with a shrug. "But it doesn't matter. You can still help us."

"But what does the girl do to help?" she eagerly questioned.

"She can hear it. And, to the rest of us, the creature looks like an ordinary man. But not to her. So you would be able to lead us to it."

"Like an ordinary man?" she asked. "Are you sure? I mean—" She hoped they couldn't detect her lies. "From what I've seen in my dreams, he's very physically damaged."

John dismissively waved his hand to the side. "That's only assuming that the creature hasn't completely taken over the host. In all likelihood,_ it_ has."

"And," said Lorenzo. "That means there are probably two hosts. One might still be a child. We have to stop this before it's passed on again and again."

She realized that they knew nothing about Erik. They didn't know that he was still fighting the thing. That he hadn't passed it on. Their ignorance gave her some power. "And, um, after I lead you to _it_, what happens?" Christine asked.

"We contain it," said John. "All you have to do is help us locate it. You won't be much in danger. So you won't have to worry."

She was very worried. "Is this what Isabella did?"

John sighed and shook his head. "What she did was risky. But she had limited options for her time. We don't want a repeat."

"Tell me."

"She reached out to the host before he had been entirely corrupted. While there was still some humanity left. With compassion, Isabella convinced him to do no more evil. And, miraculously, that appeared to have worked. The thing disappeared for a century or so."

"He chained himself to a wall," said Christine, feeling the story come together. "He's the corpse chained to the wall, isn't he?"

"Yes," said John. "So you've seen that diary entry - some poor woman stumbling across him. Isabella believed that the host was capable of acting alone. And he wanted to face his…um…physical deterioration alone. She let him run away and refused to tell anyone where he was, knowing they wanted to imprison him. Foolish—but she had a good heart. Still, the whole situation could have gone very wrong. The host could have changed his mind at any time. We were very lucky back then. We will not trust luck this time."

Christine leaned back. "What do you mean?"

"The modern era makes incarceration a thousand times easier. This Devil creature may be powerful, but we have iron walls and highly advanced security systems. We can chain it in an impenetrable fortress."

The news sunk in and dropped to the pit of her stomach. "You just want me to find him, so that you can trap him? That's all you want…."

John nodded. "I know this sounds like a frightening task. But, once again, your part is very small. You find it. Search your dreams and your thoughts. Then, we catch it. And put an end to this."

"There's no way to perform an exorcism?" she asked. "There's no other way to get rid of it without harming the…the host person?"

"No. And it's best to not even think of the host as a human being. It's a monster using a human body. Haven't you seen that in your dreams? Don't you know what it's done?" John was beginning to look a little disappointed.

"I'm well aware of what it's done," she replied, rubbing her arm. "But—the thing is never actually destroyed, right? _It_ always finds a way to come back."

"No. But it's banished for centuries. That's the best we can do."

She looked down. "Is this what you asked my mother to do for you?"

"We did."

"What'd she say?"

John and Reverend Mansart exchanged a glance. John replied, "At first, she agreed to help. But then she lost her will. Maybe the task overwhelmed her. Maybe the gift was too strong for her. But she began to come up with ridiculous ideas that made the situation more dangerous."

"What do you mean?"

He waved his hand to the side. "It does not matter now."

She gave him an angry glance. "My mother was put an institution. She died there!" They stared at her as though to ask: _So? _"You all knew that she wasn't crazy. And you let them commit her? So it does matter. I want to know what happened."

"No," John protested. "We had nothing to do with her being institutionalized. After she refused to help us, we simply stopped all contact with her. After the last letter, we knew she wouldn't work with us. Not in the way we needed her to."

"The letter?"

"It does not matter, Christine." His tone indicated that he really regretted mentioning it. "Today is what matters. Your choice is what matters. Lives are at stake!"

She shook her head in frustration. "Who _are_ you exactly?"

John hesitated. Lorenzo finally said, "We're partly supported by the Church and partly supported by some governments. We, along with others, investigate the less, you could say, normal aspects of society. Often cases of possession. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time—it's not real. This is. We don't completely understand it. If it's the Devil or something else. Once we have the host in captivity, we hope to do more research. A dissection could be very useful." She shuddered. "In any case, we've made this a top priority."

"Do a lot of people know about this?" she asked.

"No. Very, very few," said John. "We don't need governments trying to invent a whole new set of weapons to take out something that can't be killed. Or, even worse, trying to bring more of this evil into the world for personal gain. An invincible soldier? Imagine the terrible possibilities. Because you exist, Christine, we can keep this contained with fewer resources. You can lead us to it."

She stared at the table. These men were not bad people. From every other perspective, they were doing what was right. If they had been trying to capture Alexander, she might have helped. But now? "I want to see my mother's letter to you."

"But—"

"Send me a copy of her letter. And then maybe I'll help you." She really had no intention of assisting them, but at least it gave her a card to play. "I have to see that first."

"Don't you understand the threat?" asked John. Reverend Mansart was rubbing his temples. "We've linked this thing to wars. And—"

"I do understand. I understand what you're trying to do. But I've spent the last years of my life being completely confused, and I'd like to have some answers first. All right?"

"All right," said John, leaning back in defeat. "We can send that to you. It's a bunch of rambling nonsense, but of course you can see it. Do you have any other questions? Anything you want to share with us?"

She thought back through everything. "Not right now."

"Okay. If you think of any, let us know. Let all this sink in. I know it's overwhelming. But think of the good you can do."

She eyed John. "Am I free to leave?"

"Of course."

Christine slowly stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. "You should have warned me," she said to Reverend Mansart as she passed.

"You're right," he softly agreed, looking more his age. "But I've spent the last the last forty years thinking I unleashed a monster on the world. What kind of man of God unleashes the Devil? You might be the key to stopping it. My redemption before I die."

She stared at him a moment longer. Then, Christine patted his shoulder and left. A part of her feared that they might try to stop her at the last minute. They didn't. Still, she had the feeling that they weren't finished with her.

At least they'd given her some information. And they had confirmed her worst fears. The only way to kill the thing was to condemn the host to a life of suffering, either alone or imprisoned. She had to bite back tears as she emerged.

"Everything all right?" asked Stacy.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I'm just ready to get back home."

Her return trip was uneventful and sad. When she got back to her apartment, Christine saw that the note was still there. Nothing had been disturbed. Erik hadn't been back. What in the world was he doing? Darker thoughts crept into her head. No, she wouldn't believe that. Erik wouldn't turn back to that.

Still, a question entered her mind. If Erik were hurting people, would she offer those men her help? _I'm not going to think about that right now. I'll lose my mind if I think about that._

The next week was quiet. She went back to work. She still tried to do research, but it was becoming maddening to not get anywhere with it. Only a pleasant lunch with Meg gave her a break from the silence.

Another week passed. She missed him more and more with each day. She wanted to take him into her arms and kiss him again. She convinced herself that, even if there was no solution…even if he would wind up like that poor man in the diary entry, maybe they could be okay. She could take care of him. That was more bearable than the thought of never seeing him again.

Finally, Christine received the e-mail that she'd been waiting for. It had an attachment. Her mother's letter.

It was both the most wonderful and the most horrible thing she'd ever read.


	33. Chapter 33

So here is the beginning of the end. This chapter has pretty much been in my head since the beginning of the story. So I do hope you enjoy it as it propels the rest of this tale forward. I hope it's properly sweet and properly terrifying. And you will have many questions by the end, but they should all be answered within the next chapters. I have to keep a little mystery going ;) Thank you all for your continuous support. Happy New Year!

**Read and Review!**

_Dear Ms. Daae,_

_It was very nice to meet you the other day. Daae. Your last name already has light in it. I think that's a good sign, don't you?_

_Here is what you requested. Once you read it, I think you'll agree that there is nothing of use. Your poor mother - I don't think she was well when she wrote this letter. I was very sad to learn that she had passed away in an institution; that was never our intention. It's no wonder, though, as the gift that you possess is very hard on the mind. Make sure to preserve your inner strength._

_I hope to hear from you soon. You have the opportunity to change the world._

_Kindest regards,_

_John_

With a shaking hand, Christine opened the attachment. She recognized her mother's handwriting. Christine reached out with an index finger and touched the screen. _Please._

_Dear Sirs,_

_I know you'll be very disappointed by this letter. You thought I was going to give you a report on the creature's current location. I know you're very frustrated with me for wasting your time. I'm so sorry, but I can't continue like this._

_Since I was a teenager, I've known something was strange about me. I tried to ignore it. I tried to be normal, and I almost made it. I had a family, a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter. Then the noise in my mind became too much, and I thought I was going insane._

_After seeing Reverend Erik Mansart in my dreams and then finding out he was real, I was so excited. Maybe I wasn't crazy? He connected me with you, and you confirmed my sanity. You gave me an explanation and, it seemed, a purpose to all the madness. I believed every word that you told me. I was meant to help you find and destroy this evil by any means necessary. It made perfect sense._

_Or, at least, it did until I saw the look on Isabella's face as she sent her host away for the last time. It's hard to explain. Some mix of frustration and despair and anger. I didn't think too much about it. But then I got to pondering why this creature always ends up returning. It came back after Isabella's host chained himself to a wall and died one of the most horrific death's imaginable. If such a sacrifice can't destroy the creature, maybe nothing could, I thought._

_I've given up my precious daughter and husband for this. I've spent half my life feeling crazy and avoiding people. All for what? To sentence someone to a lifetime of torture for no good reason? Is that really my purpose? After all my meditation and, as you put it, gathering my inner strength - I can't believe that. I'd rather do nothing. I want to go back to my family. I started this letter three weeks ago and was going to tell you just that. I'm done. You can find another hunting dog._

_But then I thought about it a little longer. About myself. I've always been so fragile and little. I spent a lot of my life afraid because I knew I couldn't win a fight against anyone. When I was 18, one of my friends convinced me to enroll in a women's self-defense class, and I wound up on my back after three minutes there. With a head injury. Why was the ability, I wondered, given to someone like me? It seemed ridiculous._

_And then it hit me. Everything unique about me is on the inside. I don't mean that in a feel-good way. I mean, it's what you told me. Build up mental strength. Strengthen the mind and soul. Meditation and prayer and all that. Inner strength. That's why you want me. After all, physical force can do nothing to harm this creature._

_I know you're wondering what I'm rambling on about._

_As I thought about all this, it suddenly came together in my head. The realization was terrifying. But I know it's true. I know now where this creature has to be in order for me to permanently destroy it. The creature just becomes dormant when the host dies. But it needs to be killed. And that's what I can do. From the inside. Inner strength._

_It's not that easy, of course. The creature does need to be weakened. I think Isabella was right in treating the host with compassion to accomplish this. And I need to get so much stronger mentally, but I know I can do that. Then there's that final question._

_How do we get the creature out of the host? At first, it seemed impossible. But I may have found the answer in the infamous diary entry. If you look closely, you'll see that something in the entry doesn't make sense. I could definitely use help with that part, though. I might be wrong._

_There are so many questions left to be answered, but I think I have a good start. Help would be appreciated. If not, I'll have to begin this journey by myself._

_As terrified as I am, I know this is right. It's the answer. It's why I'm here._

_Love always,_

_Jocelyn_

* * *

><p>Raoul was still half-asleep when his phone rang at nine in the morning. He rolled over and grabbed it off his bedside table. Rubbing his eyes with his palm, he hoarsely asked, "Hello?"<p>

"Good morning. Mr. Chagny?"

It sounded like a British guy. "Yeah. It's Raoul. Can I help you?"

"Yes. I'm calling because of a Ms. Christine Daae. You're her friend, right? If not, I apologize for the interruption."

"Uh, yeah. We're friends." He was more awake now. What day was it? Crap, did he have class? No. It was summer break. Good. "What about her?"

"Are you a close friend?"

"Yeah. I guess you say that. What do you—"

"This is kind of a strange question, I know. But - have you noticed any odd activity concerning Ms. Daae?"

"Odd activity?" He blinked. "Like what?"

"Oh. Just anything unusual about Ms. Daae's activities. Something beyond the norm. If you had, you'd know what I was talking about."

"Not really," he replied. His mind jumped back to last winter. But – "Why are you asking me this?"

A pause. "We're just checking on her welfare. We've had some reports and are keeping in contact with those who are close to her. She doesn't have much family. So friends are next."

"Reports from who?" he asked. Could this have been a mistake that resulted from the winter nightmare? Raoul hadn't actually gone back to the authorities and said: _Oh, no. She's not crazy. We found out there really are freaky ghost creatures. So it's fine._

He'd kind of left everything alone and hoped it went away.

"Various sources. I'm not allowed to discuss that in detail. Just doing a welfare check."

"Look," Raoul replied, growing a little frustrated. "I don't see much of her now, to be honest. I don't know anything. I haven't seen anything."

"Well, will you give me a call if you do notice anything strange? I can help."

"Yeah. I'll do that."

"Thank you."

Raoul took down the guy's number and hung up.

Weird.

While he didn't understand Christine's behavior, why she'd become so distant and then broken up with him, he didn't think she was crazy. Not after all they'd experienced. He still thought they should have told someone about that.

Then again, he didn't know what 'that' was. Sometimes it seemed like a bad dream. He liked to think of it that way.

Actually, he didn't want to think of it at all. He had a camping trip coming up with some of the guys. Maybe the escape into the mountains would help clear his mind and heart.

Still, he gave her a call that afternoon. She didn't answer, so he left a message. "Hey. Christine. It's Raoul. Um. Some British dude called me and asked about you. Said he was checking on your welfare? It was kind of weird. I thought you should know. Anyway, hope you're doing well." He paused and then quickly added, "Miss you. Bye."

* * *

><p>Maybe the news didn't surprise her as much as it should have.<p>

Maybe she'd always known.

But she'd hidden from it. Who wouldn't?

After reading the letter two more times, hoping she was misunderstanding, Christine curled into a ball on the couch. Her stomach churned, and she wanted to throw up.

Her phone rang that afternoon. Raoul. She didn't feel like talking right now. He probably wanted to get together.

_It's not inevitable. You still have a choice, Christine._

But she'd already made it. Christine even had more reason to go forward with the plan than her mother had -

She'd fallen in love with her host.

She could just imagine the expression on John's face if he knew that. He probably would commit her.

But it was done.

Still, she gave herself a day to sit moping on the couch. Then, after a bad night's sleep, she started to think about all of this very carefully.

As her mother had said, Christine would have to get much stronger mentally. How that would work was kind of unclear. Maybe she'd buy some meditation books or look up mental strength online. Like the five positive thoughts? There were lots of options; she'd figure it out with time.

Now on to her mother's question. How did they get the Shadow Creature out of Erik? That had always been the impossible part, anyway.

Her first thought was that it had to with the ritual. Could she somehow become the new birthing vessel, only long enough to kill it? But there were many flaws with that plan.

First, Erik would have to agree to the idea. He was the one who'd have to complete the ritual. And there was no way in heaven or hell that he would do that. In fact, she couldn't tell him anything about her mother's letter. He'd run away to protect her.

Secondly, the ritual would only force part of the Shadow Creature into her. The other half would stay with Erik and be in its strongest form. So strong that _it_ could overtake Erik again. Even if she killed the half inside her, nothing would really be accomplished.

Finally, if the whole plan went wrong, another child would be doomed. Her child. That would be unforgivable.

No. That idea put far too much power in the thing's hands. That couldn't be right.

In fact, the thing should be weaker – not stronger. With an ache in her heart, Christine knew that Erik would have to suffer for a while longer. Would a year be enough for her to become stronger as the thing grew feebler? Two years?

But then what?

Her mother had mentioned that the answer might be in the diary entry. Something didn't make sense?

Christine quickly read it over.

_1734, the 5th of September_

…_.The coach had collapsed in the mud, and we were far from help. One of the horses broke a leg, and Anton was forced to kill the poor beast…. A horrible stench filled the air, as though an animal had died. I wanted desperately to leave. Obviously, the home had been long abandoned…. Despair hung over us like a thick, grey fog….We entered a nearly empty room. The door slammed shut behind us, giving me a great fright…. It was in here that we came upon a decomposing corpse that was chained to the back wall by the arms, legs, and waist! He had neither hands nor feet for they had rotted away. He had no nose, and only large black holes for eyes. His tattered shirt and trousers hung from greenish skin stretched over protruding bones…._

Christine paused as her stomach jumped. She didn't see anything that didn't make sense, though. Just a reminder of what poor Erik was facing. She continued.

_But then - the corpse twitched and stared up at us with its empty eyes!...The corpse, with his toothless mouth, rasped that he most certainly did not need help. He was merely waiting there to die. The corpse then ordered us to leave as a servant of the Devil was also in that house and would take our souls if we did not go! The corpse explained that he must remain chained to the wall to finally kill the Devil's servant. He commanded Anton to give him no food or water so as not to prolong his miserable life. He screamed and sobbed at us to leave….Whomever or whatever that poor soul was, I can only hope he has found peace with the Lord by now…._

Christine read it over and over. Where was the answer? What didn't make sense? She couldn't figure it out. She finally flung the pages across the room in frustration.

And then picked them up after an hour and desperately read through the entry again. Still nothing.

Another summer week passed. As others headed to the beach or to the mountains or to Las Vegas, she went to work. And then she came home and tried to find the magic answer. Her meals consisted of frozen dinners and bowls of cereal. She read that stupid diary entry at least fifty times. Nothing. Still no Erik either. She continued to feel that dark, cold place in her dreams. Her sleep was poor, and she spent half her time foggy-headed. Christine even accidentally deleted Raoul's message before listening to it. She'd give him a call later.

Another week. She slowly began to prepare for a long trip. Christine had begun to sense that the dark, cold place was connected to Erik. She was feeling him in his current location. And she was ready to find him. Maybe just being near him and searching his memories again would help her find that last piece of this puzzle. She missed him desperately.

But, around the Fourth of July, she suddenly felt less coldness. In her sleep, which was periodically interrupted by firecrackers, she felt him moving. A touch of moonlight. A quick glimpse of daylight.

She wouldn't have to go find him. He was coming back to her.

Another week.

9 PM on a Saturday night.

A knock at the door that she'd been anticipating all day. She opened it. Christine couldn't stop a soft sob from escaping her lips at the sight of him.

"I had to see you one last time," he said, wearing a black cloak that nearly covered his entire body. Hunched over. Gnarled hands. Yet somehow he'd still kept his beautiful voice. "To thank you."

* * *

><p>He should have known that it was a mistake to come back the second he saw her.<p>

Because tearing himself away from Christine Daae was going to be worse than the next forty years.

But he had to say goodbye. He had to feel her one last time. And let her know why he wouldn't be back. Couldn't be back. And how much she meant to him. What she had done for him.

She ushered him inside, and he limped toward her couch. He must have smelled awful. He must have been absolutely disgusting. Still, he felt her arms curl around his neck. Her hair tickled his chin.

"I've missed you so much," she said.

"Oh….Words cannot convey," he replied, an agonizing pain in his chest. He finally started to see it in her eyes – what he'd always wanted to see. He would have literally killed to see it months ago.

"What have you been up to?" she asked in a choked voice.

"A very long walk to clear my ugly head."

She glanced down. "I think I felt you. In my dreams. Somewhere colder? Where were you?"

"Perhaps we should talk about something else first."

_"Where were you?"_

He sighed. There was no way to avoid this conversation. "I have been searching for an ideal place where I can end this. I think I have found one. Very far north. Deep underground. An old shelter. No one will come down there and discover an unwanted surprise. So, hopefully, there will be no diary entries written about me. Or evening news reports. Or reality television shows." He managed a soft chuckle. But his humor did not help the situation.

Her face scrunched up with pain. "What do you mean?"

"Christine."

"Where are you going?"

He looked at his curled hands. "When you kissed me, I finally knew. I knew exactly what my final decision was going to be." He paused. "Perhaps thanks to Irene, I never hated humanity. Not in the way Alexander did. I was merely indifferent. People seemed weak and indecisive and frail. I did not care about them; I cared only about myself. Until you. And I knew that night when you…I knew that if you were on this Earth…if people like you are on this Earth…then I do not want this thing to exist any longer. So I am going to destroy it."

"Erik, you can stay – "

"I always saw that-that _man_ in the diary entry as a failure. A weakling. Rotting away for nothing. But I know now that he was not those things. Not at all. The opposite. And Erik must follow him."

She buried her face in his bony shoulder. "But you don't have to be alone. Even if that is the end, I'll stay with you. We'll keep looking for an answer, and I'll take care of you."

He had prepared this speech a hundred times. That didn't make giving it any easier. His words were so much nobler than he felt on the inside. _Why now?_ Still, he truthfully continued, "I cannot. I do not want to see resentment and pity build up in your pretty eyes as time ticks by."

"It won't!"

"It will! It has to. But that is not all!" he rasped. "I think it will be…much harder for me to stay on my path with you near. I will want to be better for you. Not a moldy, limbless, toothless corpse. Can you even imagine, Christine? I will want to do _anything_ to be better for you. I already do want to be better. Look at me." He stared down at his decrepit cloaked body and shrugged. "But there is nothing to be done."

She shook her head as tears dripped from her eyes. "Well, I'll never quit trying to find an answer."

"But you should. For your sake. There are no answers, and you have done enough." A strange expression crossed her face as he said this. He ignored it and continued, "So you should have those vile little blonde children-"

Her hands clenched. "I don't want them!"

"Yes, you do. You will eventually. And, if not, do something else that is wonderful. Sing. That would make Erik ecstatic. Yes. Become a spectacular singer. Perhaps I will even hear you down below."

She swallowed thickly and took in a shaky breath, her moist cheek lying against his shoulder. They were quiet for several moments, his hand resting on her back. She shakily spoke. "There's something you should know, Erik. These men." And then she told him about her visit with Reverend Mansart. And the two idiots. And Isabella – that woman's story confirmed his fate. He merely nodded, unworried. The men could do nothing to him if he chose to fight back; the thing would serve as a terrible ally in that situation. "But I didn't tell them anything about you," she stated. "I never will."

"Yes. I intend to finish this on my own. Alone." His gloved hand ran through her hair. And then he discreetly removed the glove so that he could feel her soft strands. "Not as a lab rat for some priests who think they are secret agents." He hesitated. "Yet if I do lose my mind at some point and am unable to continue, if you sense that somehow in your dreams, you may alert them."

"But—"

"No. If I start to fail, tell them. Let them do what they must. That is years away, and I will be too far gone to notice. It will not matter by then. My mind will be half-rotted and filled with worms, I imagine."

She jerked away from him. With her face buried in her hands, Christine ran into the bedroom. He should not say such things to her; she was still young and easily hurt. It was yet another reason why he had to go; he was draining away all her happiness and peace of mind. He left her alone for ten minutes or so, staring over her living room as though trying to memorize it. Perhaps he would take a picture of her with him, to look at every day. Slowly, he rose onto his aching legs and followed her. She was sitting on the edge of her bed with her face still hidden in her hands. In the dark. Her shoulders shook.

He should leave now. He could already feel himself faltering, wondering if there was another solution. "Christine."

"Will you just stay for a night?" she asked, slowly looking up. "Just one more night."

"I do not—"

"Only for a few hours then?"

"I should—"

"I love you." Her blue eyes met his. If he had any more of his noble speech left to give, he forgot it.

"Why now, Christine?" he whispered with a choke. His hands clenched. "Why would you say that now? When I can't even keep you?"

She stood, lowered the hood of his cloak, and removed his mask. And he felt her hands on both sides of his horrible face. And she kissed him, even more deeply than last time. A long, slow kiss that shattered his remaining willpower. "Stay with me," she whispered. So he stayed.

It haunted him for years, that decision.

He did protest once as she took his hand and led him to her bed, his heart pounding. "I cannot-I am too horrible. I cannot…." Of course he wanted _that._ But he also knew that the thing would make the situation as atrocious as possible. Many times, _it _had threatened to take parts of him that he was not quite ready to lose. Eventually, that mutilation would be inevitable. But he hoped to be miles and years away from her. He had to be.

Thankfully, she shook her head. "No. I just want you to be here with me. Please. Just lie here with me."

He sat down on her bed with a heavy sigh, atop the bedspread, and leaned back against the headboard. She faced him and rested her head against his shoulder, her hand flat atop his narrow chest. His arm snuck beneath her and wrapped tightly around her, and he held her. He waited for the thing to ruin this moment. But he noticed that, outside of the pain, "_It_ is being rather quiet, isn't it? Perhaps it knows that it has lost—there is nothing it can do now."

"Maybe so," she whispered in the dark. She was so warm. "Erik, why do you think the thing only wants men as hosts?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it knows they still hold many positions of power."

"It thinks women are weak?"

"Perhaps. But you are not, my love. You will do wonderful things." He kissed the top of her head. He looked at the clock. 9:45 PM. How he despised that clock.

He merely listened to her breathe. He had been so close to not returning to her, to locking himself away with no way out. But perhaps memories of this night would give him the strength to finish the job.

For the first several years, he might be able to take comfort in books and music. And then, if he felt himself slipping, having second thoughts, then he would permanently immobilize his body.

No matter what, _it_ couldn't steal these memories. _It_ couldn't take away the truth that he had been loved.

_It_ could do nothing to stop him from completing the task.

Twenty more minutes ticked by. He felt her clutch him onto him tightly. "Don't leave," she whispered.

"Oh, Christine," he murmured into her hair. "I must. I have to. Or else I _will_ chain myself to your wall and be your living corpse forever and ever."

And then….

Then something very peculiar happened.

He fell asleep.

And that made no sense. Because he never slept.

And why the hell would he choose to sleep during the very best hours of his life? The last hours, really.

What happened next was always difficult for him to recall.

He remembered briefly being awoken by her absence. His arms felt empty and cold. He tried to raise his head, tried to find her, but he felt so weak. And he swore that he heard her speaking to someone. He caught only a few words. "Fine! Do you promise-"

Sleep again overtook him before his fuzzy thoughts could make sense of the situation.

The second time he awoke, her hand was on his cheek. She gave him a watery smile. "Are you okay?"

"I do not know," he whispered, putting his hand over hers. "Something is not right. I should—" He tried to rise.

Her lips pressed against his forehead. "No. It's okay. Rest, Erik," she murmured, lightly pushing her hands against his shoulders. It was enough force to keep him down. "I understand now. I figured it all out. And I think it'll be okay. I know it will."

He tried to understand, tried to ask her what she was talking about. Then, he faded again. He briefly wondered if he was dying. And wouldn't that be magnificent? To die now in Christine Daae's bed, surrounded by softness and her scent? It was the most wonderful fate he could think of.

Except then she would have to dispose of his body. _What was she doing?_

And then he woke up for a third time. To the sound of her crying again. He sat up in a haze, attempting to find his mind. The clock blurred green in front of his eyes. 11:00 PM. Dozens of unfamiliar sensations overcame him. His body quickly worked to identify them. Cold. Exhaustion. Hunger. Thirst.

Still, he focused on her. She was sitting on the floor, just outside the bedroom, crying. The light from the living room illuminated her slightly.

"What is wrong?" he asked, trying to stand. The ache was gone, but his legs were unsteady.

She stopped crying and looked up at him. She tilted her head and asked, "How are you, Erik?"

"I am…." He had no response.

"Are you in pain?"

A pause. "No. But I—"

"Good." She hugged her arms to her chest. There was something about her eyes – he squinted to get a better look at them. "That's good."

"What is wrong?" he again asked.

"Please don't be mad at me."

"I could never be," he replied. "Why would I be?" His thoughts were so unclear that he stupidly asked, "Did you see that boy again?" Why else would he be angry with her?

"It may have been too soon," she said, rapidly shaking her head. "I don't know. Erik, I might have made a mistake. Please don't be mad at me. Maybe I should have waited. I'm not strong enough yet. Or _it's _still too strong. Or maybe my mother was wrong. What if she was?" Her eyes widened with fear as she said this. Then she shook her head again. "But I had to. I had the chance, and I had to. I had to!" She said this over and over. "I had to. I had to."

"You had to what?" he whispered.

"To move it out of you." Her voice trembled.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He stumbled toward her as cold fear crept up his spine. Freezing. The air was freezing. "What did you do, Christine?"

"I had to. Please don't be angry."

"What did you do?!"

The door slammed, separating them.

She screamed.

It sounded like she was dying.

He flung himself toward the door, trying to get to her as that shriek of pure terror shook the entire apartment.

A whisper tickled his ear - _"What I was going to do to your body won't even compare to what I will do to her mind. Hundreds will suffer for your choices. This is my century. My time to be alive! And you will not ruin it. Farewell, my wretched friend, my greatest disappointment."_

An invisible weight crashed against his chest, as though someone had struck him with an iron bar, and he flew backwards, hurtling through shadows. He heard the thud of his own head hitting the wall. Pain radiated throughout his entire skull. He gasped for air.

The screaming stopped abruptly. An eerie silence followed.

As his drained body slumped back onto her bed, he tried to maintain consciousness. Yet he was so pathetically weak.

So pathetically –

Human.

In the distance, a door opened and closed.

And, for the first time in his life, he was alone.


	34. Chapter 34

I'm glad you all enjoyed the twist. So…let's see what happened before poor Erik had his _WTH?!_ moment. I think someone else is about to have one of those, too. But I've said too much! Thank you all for your wonderful support!

**Read and Review!**

_Earlier..._

"Don't leave."

"Oh, Christine. I must. I have to. Or else I will chain myself to your wall and be your living corpse forever and ever."

She held tightly to him with her eyes wide open in the dark, desperately trying to think of the answer. Why was he making their time so short? Would it really be so terrible for him to stay with her? She'd make his life as comfortable as possible, filled with love. She'd taken care of her father at times; she could take care of Erik.

But where would they be in five…ten…twenty years? It didn't matter. She'd take it day by day.

"I'd do anything," she whispered.

Erik didn't reply. Christine raised her head to give him another kiss. She blinked and made sure that she was seeing correctly. Was he really asleep? His chest slowly rose and fell. There was finally peace on his poor face instead of agony, the lines of tension diminishing.

She hadn't know that he was even able to sleep. But this was wonderful. He looked so serene that Christine hoped he'd sleep forever.

"_Or else I will chain myself to your wall and be your living corpse forever and ever."_

Her mind jumped back to the diary entry.

Careful not to wake him, Christine slowly climbed out of bed and returned to the living room. It was freezing. After turning down the air conditioner, she grabbed a white cloth bathrobe from her closet and wrapped it around her.

She wasn't alone.

A large, dark yet transparent shadow hovered beside her. The thing was calm, clearly weakened, and she didn't acknowledge it. She looked in at Erik again. _It_ had partially detached itself from him to go with her.

The last year had raised her fear threshold, and she didn't call for Erik's help. Somehow, she sensed that something very important was coming. And so Christine quietly let_ it_ accompany her to the living room. She filled a glass with water. After taking a few sips, she placed it on the coffee table, beside the diary entry.

Before she could pick up the pieces of paper, the cup tipped over. A stream of water trickled onto the pages. "Hey!" she exclaimed, leaning back in case the thing decided to do something worse. Then she noticed that the liquid was highlighting one of the sentences.

_The corpse then ordered us to leave as a servant of the Devil was also in that house and would take our souls if we did not go!_

She grabbed a handful of paper towels to clean up the water. Her gaze darted back to that sentence.

And she realized that it didn't really make sense. The line had just fit the little ghost story so well that she'd ignored the contradiction.

Those memories from the cabin were so terrifying that her mind sometimes blocked them out. But she remembered what the thing had said to her: _"If I were the Devil, I would want your soul or some nonsense like that, wouldn't I? And I do not care about you."_

The thing didn't take souls. There was nothing she'd seen that indicated this. So what had the host been so afraid of? What had he been trying to warn them about? Maybe nothing. Maybe that was just the insane ranting of the poor man losing his mind, another reminder of what Erik was facing.

Yet the door had slammed on the couple as soon as they entered that room. As though the thing were trying to keep them there. But why? If the thing didn't want their souls, what did it want?

Christine took a deep breath. She could feel the answers coming together. She was so close now. And then_ it_ spoke to her, gently, a whisper in her mind, "I cannot quite see into your head, Christine Daae. But I know what you want."

She shivered. Once she began this conversation, there was no turning back. "What do you want?" she asked, her breath visible.

A low laugh. "Isn't that entirely obvious? I want to watch him suffer! When the servant disobeys the Master, the servant must be punished. Do you know what his next forty years will be like? Can you even comprehend what sort of fate you have condemned him to, little girl? First, I will take the rest of his fingers and his toes. And then his arms and legs. I'll snap the bones like twigs."

"Stop."

"All his teeth will fall out. And his tongue. His skin will crumble to dust. So there is nothing left of him but bone and useless pulsating organs."

"Stop it!" She clutched her head and put her hands over her ears, unable to drown_ it_ out.

"I'll take his eyes last. So he can see exactly what I do to him. He'll be all alone. Dying in the worst pain imaginable, unable to move from a pile of his own decayed flesh, while you continue your life. And it's all _your_ fault, you know? It didn't have to be this way. He could have been magnificent!"

She wanted to curl into a ball. She wanted to cry out for Erik. No. Inner strength. She had to focus. Think, Christine. Why was the thing out here with her? Just to torture her? No, _it_ wanted something. And she had to be very careful. She had to pretend like she didn't know anything.

"Well," she whispered, her chin rising. "I guess that's your consolation prize. He's going to banish you for another couple of centuries. Maybe longer. I guess that's fair."

A silence.

The tie on her robe suddenly tightened and squeezed her middle. She gasped and tried to wriggle out of its hold.

"I want to see agony and despair in his eyes as I rip him apart!" _it_ hissed.

"Yes," said Christine, still trying to loosen the tie with her hands before it caused internal damage. "You've mentioned that."

"There is nothing I want more!" Then _it_ released her. She collapsed back onto the couch with a gasp. And the thing's voice softened again. "Except for one thing."

Here it was. "What's that?"

"To survive." The thing sighed. "I was fortunate in that it only took about a hundred and fifty years to come back last time. Once, it took a thousand years. And I cannot afford that right now. The world is too ripe."

"I don't understand," she said, trying to feel the creature in her mind…trying to stay one step ahead. "Don't you need Erik to create another bargain?"

"That is the ideal situation." The thing's tone became nearly affectionate. "To own a child from birth. To raise it as my own. To have a servant that I can easily control with rewards and punishments. It is beautiful. Oh, it is perfect." A pause. And the voice in her head grew angry again. "But you destroyed everything! Alexander was perfect! Erik would have been! Until he listened to you instead of his Master!"

She shook her head. "No! He always had free will. He was trying to get rid of you before he met me."

"You sealed it. The fool is going to sacrifice himself for your sake. And there is nothing I can say now that will convince him otherwise. He is lost to me."

They sat in a short silence, the thing hovering above her shoulder, humming in her ear. "Well, what do you want?" she finally asked. "Do you expect me to go in there and tell Erik to complete the ritual?"

_It_ scoffed. "He is utterly useless now. If you said that to him, he would have a tantrum over how I have corrupted your precious goodness. My bargain is ruined. The second he wakes, he will take me deep underground. And I will rot away along with him. Hundreds of years, wasted."

"So then what –"

"The bargain is the preferable way to remain here; it is not the only way. There are less original methods." The thing paused as though waiting for her to come up with the answer. "Humans have told stories of this for centuries. From the cuneiform tablets of the Sumerians. To the large screens of your theaters. Every fiction has a truth to it, yes?"

"Possession," she murmured.

"Smart girl."_ It_ spoke to her like she was a dog.

The Shadow Creature would change the rules of the game to survive. _It_ had with Angela and Lillian, broken one bargain to make another, to preserve itself.

"Anton and Gertrude," she began, picking up the damp pages of the diary entry. "The host was afraid you would try to jump into them that day? That's what he meant by taking their souls? You would try to possess one of them? That was the last thing you could do to save yourself back then, wasn't it?"

"Very good. Yes." A cold wind brushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ears. "Possession is less desirable," the creature continued. "Hopping from mind to mind like a scared frog. The level of control I have over the individual is highly unstable. And generally I can only jump into weak-minded, mentally unbalanced, or willing people. And the human brain can only tolerate so much before it deteriorates; therefore, I cannot stay in anyone for too long. But this existence is better for me than nothing."

"Why didn't you jump into Anton or Gertrude?" she asked.

"They were not weak-minded, mentally unbalanced, or willing. Their minds blocked me, sensing the unwanted intrusion. Once my host is chained to a wall or immobilized, my options are very limited." A pause. "Now you, my dear Christine, are not weak-minded or unstable. But - and we both know the question, don't we? Are you willing?"

She stared forward, feeling her heart jump into her throat.

_It_ continued, "Now there is always the possibility that, within the next forty years, a hospital full of psychiatric patients will stumble across Erik as he rots against a wall. But I am not one for long odds. You seem like a sure thing. This summer night. You and I? Coming together as one?"_ It _spoke suggestively, and she shuddered in disgust. "You are likely my last hope before he takes me underground. And that makes you _his_ last hope, doesn't it? I think it does. This is fun."

She stared at the entry, running her tongue over her dry, cold lips. "And you know it'll hurt him," she murmured. "I mean, Erik will be upset. If he knows that you're…that you've possessed me. It's another way for you to hurt him. That's why you like this idea so much."

"Well. Yes. I do like to have the last word."

"Will this hurt me?"

"It will not be like the bargain; I only take over your mind. I cannot put the threads of invincibility into you as I can with an infant in the womb. But it is in my complete best interest to keep you alive."

She tried to focus, tried not to think too deeply about what would happen. "What will it feel like?"

"A little tickle. An itch that you cannot quite scratch. Perhaps you'll be a bit tired, a bit dizzy. And then, sometimes, I will require use of your body. The less you resist me, the more comfortable you will be. I will use you until I can find another person to jump into. One after the other. The ultimate objective is to find someone with certain intentions…who might appreciate me more…who might be willing to begin a new ritual and give me an infant. It may take years to find the right person. But at least I will be here with some control over my own fate. And I do _love_ to be here."

"Let me think about this," she murmured. "I need time to think about this."

"I will give you ten minutes. I can only keep Erik asleep for so long. And I think he might object to our little conversation, don't you?"

Heart pounding, Christine thought of her mother's letter as the air vibrated around her. And the diary entry. Suddenly, she could see the ideal circumstances for this plan. If Erik chained himself down below for a couple of years, the thing would significantly weaken and think itself doomed. And she would become mentally stronger, just as her mother had said to do. Using her dreams, she would then find Erik in whatever cold, dark placed he'd hidden himself. And then Christine would let the thing inside of her. And, if her mother was right, she could destroy the weakened and desperate creature with her inner strength.

A couple of years to create the perfect scenario. Couldn't she be patient until she was stronger?

But she was also frightened that this might be her only chance. What if she couldn't find Erik years from now? What if he was so broken physically and mentally by then that nothing could bring him back?

And worst of all - what if the thing no longer wanted to make this deal by then? What if_ it_ had detected her intentions?

"So, Christine, are you willing?" _it _again asked.

She swallowed. Trembling, she got up and looked at Erik. Still asleep. Still at peace.

"Are you willing? Or should I take another finger?"_ it_ rasped in her ear. "Would you like to see what it looks like when I give him the sensation of being burned alive? Skinned alive? Would you like to watch him writhe? I would."

_It _was desperate.

And, unfortunately, so was she. Seeing him serenely sleeping, Christine couldn't send Erik back to his hell again. She could fight this now. She was strong enough. What did a couple more years matter?

"Are you willing? Or should I -?"

"Fine!" she shouted. She quickly lowered her voice as Erik stirred. "Do you promise the bargain will be over? That's the end of this entire stupid thing. _All _of you goes into me? He's completely free of you. You won't hurt him anymore?"

"His body won't be mine. Once the bargain is broken, and only I can break it, that is the end. And, by taking you, I will also be in violation of the terms of the original agreement. So, either way, it is done."

"What about what you've already done to him?"

"He will gradually heal. He will be weaker. And he will be able to die, like any other man. But he will heal."

She tried to feel for whether the thing was lying to her. She didn't sense this. She just sensed a desperation to survive. And maybe a desire for revenge. Oh, God. She couldn't do this, could she? Oh, but she had to. What was she doing? She didn't even know—except that something very, very unsettling was soon going to happen to her.

But surely…surely being temporarily possessed couldn't be as terrible as the life Erik was facing. Surely not. She could fight this. She would win.

"Fine," she whispered. "How will it work?"

"Very simply," the thing replied in a nearly happy tone. "Do not resist me when you feel me. Go a bit closer to him."

"I want to make sure he's okay first." She started to go into the bedroom. Her heart was hammering. Her stomach was swirling, and cold perspiration was forming on her forehead.

"Do not tell him what is happening. Have you noticed how much dear Erik hates not having control?"

"Not as much as you do," she replied. She went inside, sat on the side of the bed, and touched his cheek. She stroked his distorted face with her fingertips and smiled. He slowly awoke. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I do not know. Something is not right. I should—" He tried to get up.

She kissed his forehead. "No. It's okay. Rest, Erik." She pushed his shoulders down. He couldn't know; he'd never let it happen. "I understand now. I figured it all out. And I think it'll be okay. I know it will."

She could see him fighting to stay awake. He sensed that something had changed. But Erik finally slept again. No, she couldn't go back on this. She could do this. She would kill _it _right now. Just as her mother had said, Christine would kill _it_ from the inside.

"I'm ready," she whispered. She took a deep breath and braced herself.

"Take his hand. Good girl. I despised you for being my downfall. Now you will be my savior." She entwined their fingers and closed her eyes. "You don't how badly I have wanted to do this –"

Her eyes opened wide at the threat, but it was too late to go back.

And it was funny. She thought there might be fireworks or music or…or maybe she'd watched too many Disney movies. But the lights only flickered once. She felt a slight jolt, like a harsh shock from static electricity. And then—nothing.

The room was still and quiet. Maybe it was a little darker? Or was that her vision? The thing had stopped talking to her. She could no longer hear Erik in her mind; there was no humming or buzzing. In fact, she couldn't sense the thing at all.

The hue of Erik's skin was the first change she noticed. The greenish tint of decay faded. And he looked more like someone who never went into the sunlight. His breathing deepened as though oxygen actually mattered. He sighed, and the tension left his body. Erik turned his head and pressed his cheek into the pillow, a thin lip twitching upwards. His relief was palpable.

She saw the beginnings of scabs where the sores and lesions had been. His body was slowly working to repair itself, as though it had just fought off a terrible illness. He swallowed several times and ran his tongue along his dry lips. Thirst. He would need water. And food.

Christine went into the kitchen, her footsteps silent against the carpet and tiles. The whole apartment was deathly quiet. _I'll be okay. _She filled the glass beneath the sink, listening to the soft whir of the water, and then turned around.

The lights flickered above her. The water slipped from her hands. The glass shattered, cutting her bare leg, and the cold, clear liquid spilled all over the floor.

An explosion in her head. Like a terrible migraine and something shrieking in her ear and flashes of destruction. All at once. As though someone had played a loud and disturbing movie in her mind.

Quiet again.

She took quick, deep breaths. _Okay. Mental strength. You'll be okay. You can handle that. Fight back, Christine._

She concentrated. Focused on good things. Erik was free. Her father. Her mother. Music. Holidays.

Another explosion. And another. And another.

Far too much._ It_ had lied to her. About what this would feel like.

She sunk to her knees. Then, leaning over with her palms flat on the ground, Christine threw up in the middle of her kitchen. Her face was sweaty, and her hair stuck to her forehead. The burning, bitter taste of vomit lingered in her mouth. Taking some of the spilt water onto her fingertips, she rubbed it over her skin, trying to cool down. She put some to her tongue, unable to stand.

"Help me," she whispered.

Christine weakly managed to crawl back to the hallway outside the bedroom. She wanted to go to him. She wanted help and comfort. Then there was another explosion, and, for several seconds, she hated him._ It_ hated Erik, and so she did. The thing blended their thoughts together. _Look what he did to you. You'll never be the same because of him. Look at him, uselessly lying there while you suffer? It's pathetic!_

She fought those thoughts away. _No! I made this choice. I did this because I love him._

As her head pounded, she began to softly cry. What did she do? How did she fight back? She felt the thing growing even stronger, threatening to take over.

Her sobbing awoke Erik, and he sat up. Obviously disoriented, he stood and asked her what was wrong. She made sure that he was okay. Then, as her head roared, she tried to explain. She just didn't want him to be mad at her. She wanted him to help her but could barely hear her own garbled words.

But she only remembered him shouting: _"What did you do?!"_

She couldn't take him yelling at her, not on top of everything else. Her last defenses started to crumble.

The door slammed. And she felt one final horrible rush of what could only be described as liquid misery streaming into her head. Millisecond flashes of mankind's worst atrocities. More pounding pain and nausea that made her gasp and deafening noise in her mind. The perfect cocktail for insanity. She screamed. _It_ was trying to carve out a space for itself in her brain.

_It _also wanted to hurt Erik. And it would use her to do so. No, she wouldn't let that happen.

With a last burst of energy, Christine forced herself up and ran blindly out the front door, shoving it closed behind her.

While she still had some control of herself, she jumped down the steps of her apartment, still wearing her robe over shorts and a t-shirt. The air was warm, but her skin was ice. Down dark streets of an older neighborhood with lots of trees. Onto campus. Into downtown. The odor of car exhaust and beer and barbecue. She bumped into someone. "Watch it!" the girl snapped.

She was so dizzy. Where was she?

More running. Grass. Concrete. Warm asphalt beneath her bare feet. Headlights. In her eyes. Car horns and obscenities because she'd run into slow-moving traffic.

More damp squishy grass. She saw grotesque structures in the distant. Strange shapes. A circle. A long thing sticking out diagonally from a taller thing. Hanging, swaying objects. A playground, she finally recognized. She passed someone who smelled of body odor and alcohol.

She blanked out for a second as the creature attempted to take over. No.

And Christine realized that that she couldn't keep control of her body and repel the Shadow Creature at the same time. That was like trying to simultaneously drive and fight someone. She had to stay still. She dizzily collapsed onto a wooden bench.

_What have I done to myself? Did I really think I ever had a chance? Was I that stupid? What have I done?_

So exhausted. So sick. She almost wanted to just give up and let the thing have her body.

A familiar place. A bright, warm place.

She smiled and walked into a small kitchen that smelled wonderful. "What's for dinner, Dad?" she asked, throwing her backpack into the corner. The fluorescent lights twinkled above.

Her dad turned around from the stove where he'd been frying something on a cast-iron skillet. "BLTs," he replied. "Extra crispy bacon. Just how you like it." He smiled.

"Sounds awesome!"

"How was school today?"

"Okay. I felt kind of funny, though." She sat down in a chair and folded her legs beneath her.

"What do you mean?" He turned around. The bacon sizzled behind him.

"I don't know. Just weird." Her heart was heavy. She'd been so happy seconds ago.

"What's wrong, honey? Did you get sick again?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"What happened?" He turned off the stove and knelt down next to her.

"I started feeling dizzy." She looked around the kitchen. Her heart hurt. She didn't want to leave yet, but - "I shouldn't be here," she whispered as the colors blurred beneath the lights.

"Why not?" her father asked.

"Because this is a happy memory. And _it's_ going to erase it!" She sobbed. "It's going to erase everything! I'm sorry, Dad."

She tried to claw her way out. But it was too late. She felt the memory disappear, devoured by evil and no longer hers.

Back to darkness. Still, she fought. Pushed back when she felt _it _penetrating her mind too much, looking for more damage to do. She faded away.

And the next thing she remembered was a familiar voice asking, "Is_ that_ her?"

* * *

><p>"Last Saturday night out as a free man! Drink up!"<p>

"The permanent ball and chain! You sure you want to go through with it, dude?"

"Last chance to leave the country!"

They continued to give Neil a hard time that balmy weekend night. He was marrying Jessica the following Saturday and would have plenty of time to recover and not stumble down the aisle. Raoul and some of the other guys had stayed nearby over the summer to work or take classes, so they'd met that night for a steak dinner and then lots of drinks. After the bar, they were going to a strip club in the nearest city. Which always made Raoul feel kind of awkward. Still, it was a relief to get away from the daily grind. He was unhappily single for the first time in nearly two years, and this was just one night of debauchery. One night to try and forget how much he envied Neil right now.

As someone ordered another round, Raoul's phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and chuckled. "Heh. Jessica?"

"Uh-oh!" one of the guys said with a laugh. "She's checking up on you, Neil. Guess we know who's going to wear the pants in that family, eh?" They all laughed and elbowed him.

"Shut the hell up." Neil looked at Raoul's phone and shrugged. "No idea. Better see what she wants."

Raoul answered. "Hello?"

"Hey. Raoul?" Jessica's voice was hesitant. "You're, um, out with Neil and the boys, right?"

"Yeah." He smirked. "And you should see what he's been doing tonight. I don't know, Jess. You might want to change your mind before it's too late."

"Hey!" Neil made a half-hearted grab for the phone as everyone snickered.

"Heh. Keep an eye on him for me." Something was still wrong with her tone.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I am so, so sorry to bother you. I wasn't sure if I should call someone. Or maybe an ambulance? I know you're not together anymore, but I know you care about her and you're like her only…."

"Wait. What?" He leaned forward and covered his other ear to drown out the noise. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, one of my friends got sick, so we were going to take her home early. Parking is crappy around here. So we were walking past that park on Second Street to get to the car. You know, with the playground and where the homeless people sometimes come—"

"Yeah. I know where you're talking about." His heart started to pound a little faster.

"So I wasn't sure until I got closer. I thought I had to be wrong. But…Christine is out here. She's sitting on a bench at an empty park in the middle of the night. No shoes on. It was weird, so I tried to talk to her, ask her if she needed a ride home or something. She won't say anything to anyone. I'm a little freaked out. I don't want to just leave her here—"

"What the -?! Are you sure it's her?"

"Positive," she softly replied. "Maybe she's sick or something?"

"Wait. Give me a second. I'll be right there."

Raoul told the others he had to go and ignored their questions and comments. He quietly muttered to Neil, "Something to do with Christine. Thanks for a good time. See you soon."

When he reached his car, Raoul grabbed a bottle of water from his trunk and tried to push away the growing fog in his head. It was only a ten minute drive, and the streets weren't too busy. He stopped the car along the side of the park and was able to see the outlines of the playground. Jessica and two of her friends soon ran up to him as fast as their high heels would allow. They were wearing short, glossy dresses and heavy makeup for a girls' night out on the town.

"Thank you so much for coming!" Jessica exclaimed, taking his arm. "She's still over here."

"Being creepy," one of the other girls muttered beneath her breath.

Sure enough, Raoul found Christine sitting on a bench. In a bathrobe over her clothes. With no shoes. Her eyes were half-open. Her posture was heavily slumped, her hands lying limply in her lap, and her head was tilted to the side as she stared at absolutely nothing.

"Jesus," he whispered to himself. Raoul slowly took a seat beside her and tried to get her to face him. "Christine? Hey there." He waited for some sort of acknowledgement but got nothing. "What are you doing out here, huh? It's Raoul. Can you hear me?" He waved a hand in front of her face. "Christine? Are you okay?" He thought that she nodded her head slightly. That was a good sign, right?

"What should we do?" Jessica asked, hugging her arms against her chest. Her friends stood back, afraid to come any closer. Raoul continued to call her name and try to get her attention. Occasionally, he heard a soft humming sound emanate from the back of her throat. He checked for injuries. There was a cut on her leg, and she'd obviously been running around barefoot for a while. Her breath smelled kind of bad. Was she inebriated? She'd never been that much of a drinker.

"Okay, Chris," he said as some of the homeless population started to wander over out of curiosity. The other girls were taking slow steps backward, as though trying to get away without seeming rude. "Let's leave this place, okay? Let's go home. We're going to go home now, okay?" Putting an arm around her back, he slowly guided her upwards. Weirdly, she stood with little resistance. He led her forward, supporting her, and she shuffled forward with him over the grass.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Jessica asked.

"Christine!" He again waved his hand in her face. Nothing. He turned back to Jessica. "I'll take her to the hospital if she doesn't snap out of this soon. Maybe she's had too much to drink or something."

"Well, let me know how she is."

"I will. Thanks for calling me! You girls have fun! Don't get into too much trouble!" Christine swayed slightly as they walked, still blankly staring forward. "Sweetheart?" Raoul led her to his car. He opened the front passenger's side door and helped her inside, then fastened the seatbelt around her. As he climbed in and began to drive, he kept talking to her. "Were you at a party or anything? Did someone give you a drink? Or tell you that something was candy? And…maybe it wasn't candy?" No reply. "Are you sick?" He shook his head and then hesitantly asked, "This doesn't have to do with last winter, does it? Right? Christine? This isn't something really weird?" He noticed the car was a little colder, and the air conditioning was off.

"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked. He swore that she slightly shook her head. "Okay. Well, I'm going to drive you to the emergency room. Because you're scaring me. Let me know if you need anything. Water? Anything?" Shaking his head, Raoul faced forward, feeling increasingly disturbed.

Suddenly, Christine flinched. Her head slowly rose up. She blinked twice and then looked at him. Up and down. "Ra-oul." She said his name slowly, tilting her head. "Raoul. Chagny." She studied him. "I did not expect this."

"Uh. Christine?"

"_Yes?"_ She answered too quickly and stared at him, sitting up now. As though nothing had ever happened. Yet, there was something off about her movements.

"Could you please tell me what in the hell is going on? I'm about to take you to the hospital."

"Hm. That might be acceptable." She paused and seemed to think about this. "But not yet. Could we go to your residence first?"

"My _residence?_ You know, I really think you might need to see a doctor. I'm worried about you! Do you know what you've been like these past ten minutes?" He looked between her and the road, gripping the wheel. "Jessica called me because you were sitting in the middle of the park past midnight. In a bathrobe with no shoes! You wouldn't talk to anyone. Were you sleepwalking?! And now –"

"Oh." Her neck bent as though she were stretching it, a jerky motion. She stiffly crossed her legs. Then uncrossed them and took an extreme interest in how they were positioned. Finally, she continued, "Well. Really. I am just fine. I simply needed a moment. To recover. I had a headache. It has been a very difficult night. I haven't really felt like myself. I'll tell you everything. If you will take me to your lovely home. We can have a warm drink and talk. Please?"

"All right. Fine." He side-glanced her. There was something awkward about the way she spoke, like she was reading lines from a bad play. Still, at least she was calm and talking. She was even smiling. Kind of. The feeling in his stomach tightened. He ignored the eeriness and focused on the fact that Christine seemed to be in good health. "But if anything else happens, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Thank you, Raoul. I am sure that won't be necessary."


	35. Chapter 35

Thank you to all those who reviewed. It means a lot! I know many of you are back to school and busy again.

So…let's see what happens to our three beloved characters. I hope you enjoy it. I tried to keep it creepy without getting too…icky?

**Read and Review!**

It was almost 1 AM by the time they got to his place. The situation had jolted Raoul awake. He kept looking at her, trying to figure this out. Christine had barely acknowledged him after he'd agreed to take her to his house. "How are you feeling?" he asked as they neared his complex.

"Well, thank you."

"Having a good summer?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Uh. Well, I went camping a few weeks back. That was cool. One morning, we woke up and saw some of our equipment had been knocked over. Something had gone through our trash and made a mess. We're wondering if a bear came by. Scary, right? It was fun, though. Did some hiking." No response. "Going to Neil's wedding soon. Should be fun. Jessica said you were invited if I didn't mind. Of course I don't. We're still friends, you know? Did you get an invitation?"

"I don't know."

He felt relief as he finally pulled into his driveway. When Christine climbed out of the car, her movements were still stiff and robotic. She stared at her legs, her hands curled into fists; the process of walking was obviously a challenge. He stayed by her side in case she fell over. "I still think you might want to see a doctor. Aren't you going to tell me what happened?"

"I will soon."

He led her inside and flipped on a light. She instantly began to look over his apartment as though she'd never seen it before. She glanced at his living room furniture, brushing her hand against the arm of the couch. She checked his kitchen and the bedroom. Finally, she came to a complete stop in front of the few photographs that he kept on a table beside his bed. They all had Christine. One of him and her at an amusement park right after riding a crazy roller coaster, their hair windblown and their faces red. The one of her on the black horse. A close-up of them hugging right before a date. He hadn't been ready to completely give up on their relationship. Raoul was a little embarrassed. Her index finger was up at her cheek as she studied them. Did she think he was pathetic?

"The two of us had pleasurable times together, didn't we?" she stated. "We were extremely close in a romantic way."

"Uh. Yeah." He walked up behind her, awkwardly scratching the side of his head. She picked up the photo of them hugging. His stomach flip-flopped.

"Hm." She ran her thumb over the silver frame and set it back down. Slowly, she turned back around to face him. Her head tilted up, and she smiled. "Well, Raoul Chagny. We can have more pleasant times, can't we?"

"I, um…." He took a step backward. "I don't know if this is the right time to talk about that. I think you need to rest."

"I am really not that tired." She grabbed his upper arm, leaned in tightly against him, and whispered in his ear, "Did you ever think we would repro—have little children? To love and care for." She subtly gestured to the bed, her breath tickling his neck.

"What!?" He gently removed her hand from his arm and leaned away. "I guess sometimes. But then it ended, so - So why are you asking me this now?"

She put a hand on her stomach and rubbed it in circles. "I was just thinking about an infant. But I am not sure that it would work correctly. I do not think it would be the same as before. But maybe-" She touched her forehead. "Oh." Christine swayed and squeezed her eyes shut. She groaned. "No," she whispered to herself. "Ah, you don't like this, do you?"

"Are you okay?" He helped her sit on the bed.

With her hands at her temples, she nodded and inhaled. And she seemed to glare at nothing for a second. "I'm sorry. I am a bit ill. Raoul. Could you please make me something to drink?"

"That sounds great. Perfect. Tea? Coffee?"

"How about hot chocolate? Could you make me that? Please?"

"Yeah. Definitely. Marshmallows?"

"Oh, yes, please!" Her eyes twinkled.

"Okay." He eagerly stepped out of the room. "And then you're going to get some sleep. You can take the couch or the bed. I don't care. In the morning, I'm taking you to a doctor. Just talk to him. Okay?"

"Mhm."

He led her into the kitchen, continuing to wonder if some ass of a guy had slipped her something. Raoul filled a mug with water and heated it up in the microwave. She sat down in a kitchen chair. He took out the packages of hot chocolate and the marshmallow bag. When he glanced at her again, her chin was propped in her hand as she studied him. "How you doing?" he asked.

"Thinking." She smiled, but there was something cold about it.

"About what?"

"Many, many things."

"Like what?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

"Well, for a moment, I was wondering if creating a child would be a good idea."

"What?! What brought all this on?"

"I was thinking that you could provide me with an infant, considering our obvious romantic history." The microwave beeped, but he just stared at her. "But do not worry," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I have decided that it wouldn't work. It would be an ordinary and unhelpful baby. I also realized that I have much less time in here than I thought. So…." She sighed. "So my plans are going to change."

He decided not to overreact. He finally took the mug of hot water out and casually asked, "So, Christine, what were you up to tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"You seeing some friends? On a date? At a party?"

"No. I was home. It was a very uneventful evening."

"And you decided to wander into the park for the heck of it?"

"I was taking a walk."

"At midnight?" She nodded. "What'd you do earlier today?"

"Are you making me hot chocolate?" There was an accusation in her tone.

"Yeah. Obviously." Shaking is head, he turned back around. He tore opened the package and began to pour the powder into the hot water.

After he grabbed a spoon from the drawer to mix it, she stood. The silverware drawer opened again. He turned to see what she was doing, but Christine had already closed it. The contents rattled inside. As he stirred, the spoon gently clinking against the edges, she remained in the corner of his vision. She spoke, "I realized how how much _I_, Christine, would hate to do anything to hurt you. I really wanted to protect you."

He assumed she was talking about the relationship. "Well. You know, I guess we needed a little break. You were unhappy. I was unhappy. Things happen."

"Protecting you was almost as important as saving him. Unfortunately – _almost._"

"Saving who?"

As he grabbed the plastic bag of marshmallows, she came up to his side. She whispered into his ear, "It is absolutely vile inside here." She grabbed part of his shirt, near the shoulder, and rubbed it between her fingers. "And you will not be right for me. So I was thinking that an - what do people call it? - an insanity defense might be the fastest way to get where I need to be."

"What?"

She wrapped her arm around the front of him in a very tight and uncomfortable hug. "If she wants to be so difficult, she can see the results." He clutched the bag in midair. "This will destroy her life. And maybe that will give me more time. Maybe she will not even want to come back after she sees what she has done to you, Raoul Chagny."

With a grunt, Raoul tried to break free of her grip, to turn around and confront her.

A flash of metal.

A very sharp steak knife gleamed in the kitchen light. Part of an expensive silverware set his mom had bought him one Christmas.

Choking in surprise, he reflexively grabbed her arm to hold it back. Still, his mind couldn't register this.

She was strong. Too strong. Like he was fighting a defensive lineman instead of a 5'5, hundred-something pound female.

Was this really happening?

"Christine, what the hell are you doing?!" he screamed at her as she backed him up against the kitchen counter. He slid his hand to her wrist to keep the knife away from his throat, bending her arm back without snapping the bone. His phone began to buzz and ring in his pocket. "Are you nuts!? Have you lost your goddamned mind?! Stop! What are you doing?!" He probably called her a crazy bitch somewhere in all that. He said things that he'd never said in his life as he struggled to keep her from…from killing him.

Maybe someone had slipped something into _his_ drink. A practical joke from the guys. That's what this was.

The knife was getting closer. He was nearly bent over the counter. She was overpowering him.

"She has to suffer," Christine whispered. "No. No. Go away, you stupid little girl. No. No…."

She dropped the knife onto the floor with a clatter and took two large steps backward. A loud, shuddering sob came from the back of her throat. Her eyes rolled back into her head, revealing white, and she collapsed to the kitchen floor with a dull thud.

Gasping for breath, Raoul scooted along the counter, afraid to get near her. The lights flickered. "Christine?" he whispered, finally approaching her still form. Her face was unnaturally pale, and her eyes had bluish circles. She was breathing, not dead. Heart racing, he fumbled for his phone. What was he going to say? My ex tried to kill me? Or my friend is having a psychotic episode and needs immediate medical attention? Probably the latter.

His phone rang again. The call was coming from Christine's phone. He'd stepped right into _The Twilight Zone._ Not taking his eyes off her, he shakily answered. "Hello?"

He almost expected to hear her voice and find out that this person lying in front of him was an evil clone. That'd make more sense than anything. She didn't reply, but the eerily pleasant male voice was familiar. The hairs on his arms stood on end. "Is Christine with you?"

"Who is this?" Raoul asked.

"That does not matter!" the man snapped. "Is Christine with you?"

"She—" His voice caught. "Yeah, but she's….Who is-?" The line went dead. His life had become a horror movie.

Her arm twitched. Grabbing the knife off the floor, Raoul hurled it into the sink. He walked to the other side of the room. His fingers fumbled over the keys as he dialed.

"9-11. What is your emergency?"

Raoul opened his mouth to speak. Christine slowly sat up and turned to stare at him. Narrowed black eyes. Tangled blonde hair hanging into her face. Mouth set in a thin line of determination.

"9-11. What is your emergency?"

He backed away toward the living area. "Christine?" he whispered. "Babe, I think you need help. Let me call for help, okay? I think you're having some kind of-of breakdown."

Slowly, she climbed onto wobbly legs. She began to limp toward him as the lights flashed. Her hands reached out toward him, her fingers curled slightly.

"Christine? Christine! _What is wrong with you?! Look at what you're doing!_" He grabbed a metal pot off the stove as he passed, clutching the black handle as his chest tightened with terror. She approached, walking faster now, walking with clear purpose. He didn't know if he could hurt her. Raoul sprinted toward the door.

A whoosh of air. A descending shadow.

A clunk.

A crash.

And there, right in his very own home, was the tall, horrible man from Raoul's winter nightmares.

He had Christine up against the wall, pinning her there by the shoulders with both hands. And he was screaming into her face - _"Get out of her! Get out of her now!" _

Christine tilted her head sideways and grinned.

"Is anyone there?" asked the 9-11 dispatcher.

Raoul dropped the phone. And just…stared.

* * *

><p>It felt like he had been unconscious for a long time.<p>

But less than an hour had passed.

The back of his head pounded with pain. The clock read 12:23 AM.

Softness. Her flowery smell. He wanted to stay in that bed for the rest of his life. Yet some part of his clouded brain was screaming at him to get up. Because something had happened. Something had changed. He rose, still wearing the cloak. The mask sat atop her dresser. Despite the ache in his skull and exhaustion, he felt lighter. He stood and walked forward on feet that didn't ache. He turned on the light. There was a new clarity in his senses, a vividness to the colors and the sound, the hum of the air conditioning. A bright painting of a ballerina on her wall.

"Christine?" His mouth was dry. The door easily opened with a squeak, and he walked into the empty living area. A nightmare began to return to him. He turned toward the kitchen.

A puddle of water. Shattered glass. And…someone had been sick. She had been ill here.

He stood there like an idiot.

He threw off the cloak and looked down at his hands. His skin was healing, the sores turning to scabs. An ugly shriveled finger where no finger had been. A new finger. He wiggled it. The room tilted and spun.

He needed water. He was rock bottom on the hierarchy of needs, barely functional and able to think. Grabbing a cup, he filled it and drank. He did this four times. Never had liquid felt so good on the back of his throat. He threw open her cabinet and grabbed a blue box of her cereal. Scooping up handfuls, he ate the sweetened flakes. His brain ticked back to life. Mental clarity as he devoured the cereal like a starving animal.

No voice to tell him what to do next. His thoughts were his own.

He saw the diary entry lying on the table. "What did you do?" he whispered. "Christine, what did you do?"

The silence of her apartment was driving him mad. She'd left her phone and her purse. He grabbed the former. One glimpse at his reflection, and he seized the mask. Hideous and yet different. He could not even think about that now. He could not think of himself, of what this all meant for him. With no clues, he ran out into the night. He called her name. He searched the nearby yards and businesses, darting carelessly across roads. Because he'd never had to care! A white pickup screeched to a stop in front of him, and he was illuminated by the headlights. An old man wearing a cowboy hat stuck his head out. "What the hell's the matter with you? Trying to kill yourself? Moron."

Had that happened several years ago, the man would have wound up on the nine o'clock news. Had that happened years ago, the thing might have pushed the offending vehicle into a light pole. But he merely stumbled away as another realization dawned upon him. He could die now. No more jumping off buildings for the thrill of it. No more laughing as bullets dropped in front of him. He felt smaller, vulnerable.

He raced to the black car he had driven there on his long journey from the north. Lying in the front seat was a page with scribbled red words, nearly illegible, that contained what he had planned to say to her. That he was leaving. So she could have a normal and happy life. And that he would always remember her, always love her. As his deformed hands clutched the wheel during the long, torturous drive, he had memorized those words. And now-

How the hell did he find her?

He could not track her phone. She did not have her billfold, so there was no way to track her credit card or fund withdrawal. Yet she wouldn't be able to get very far without money. Without anything at all!

_Where else would she be?_

A tickle in his brain. A feeling.

_Chagny. _

Could she have gone to the boy? For help?

How comical – that he actually hoped Christine _was_ with that stupid boy. Hell, he could have found them kissing, and he might have felt relief.

And disgust and unreasonable rage.

_Let her be there. _

Chagny answered with a timid, "Hello?"

Already, he sensed that something was off. "Is Christine with you?"

"Who is this?"

"That does not matter. Is Christine with you?"

"She—" Chagny paused. "Yeah, but she's…."He could hear a quiver of fear in the boy's voice, a breathlessness. "Who is-?"

He hung up and completed a violent U-turn. He drove twenty miles over the speed limit down empty dark streets, all the while reminding himself that he was no long invincible. Half the lights were on at Chagny's home.

He parked and sprinted up the driveway on legs that no longer ached and feet that no longer burned. The blinds were closed but tilted at an angle that gave him a glimpse of the other side. And he saw Chagny nearly backed up against the wall, his mouth in an_ o_ of horror. He could not see her face. But even in her posture, the tilt of her head, he could see something that was simply not her. And he knew.

He knew why the thing was no longer with him.

He barged through the unlocked front door and had her pinned to the wall in seconds. Her strength. Her dark eyes. That soulless smile. He nearly lost all control. "Get out of her!" he screamed. "Get out of her now!"

She grinned at him. "Aw. It is just me. Little sweet Christine. Don't you love me anymore, Erik?"

"Get out of her, you repulsive creature! Get back to me! I am what you own! I am what you want!"

"Never," she - no! - _it_ replied. "You had your chance. Now you will enjoy your consequences."

"You cannot do this!" he roared. "This was not your bargain! You have no claim on her!" He nearly shook her. And that's what _it _wanted, for him to be a monster. He released her before he caused damage, and she fell back against the wall.

"You should have listened to me, Erik," _it_ said, her body sliding to the floor.

"You want a goddamned heir?" he snarled. "I will get you that! I will perform the goddamned ritual! Twenty times, if you want! Whatever you like! Get out of her!"

"Why would I ever believe you? I am done with you. You can go to - Oh." A groan escaped her purplish lips. Her eyes closed. "Hell," it muttered, before her head fell to the side. The thing lost control of the body. Did that mean Christine was still there, fighting it? She had to be. For his sanity, she had to be.

He went on autopilot. Using the tie from her robe, he wrapped it around her torso and arms, creating a crude straightjacket. At least it was soft; he did not want to hurt his angel. He had come unprepared. For this. He gathered her limp body into his arms. He would take her somewhere very quiet. Where they could fix this. Yes, this would be fixed. And she would be fine. And he would never touch her with this evil again.

"Wh-wh-what the hell is going on?" Chagny whispered. "Wh-wh-?"

He had forgotten the boy was even there. "It is not your concern now." He headed for the door.

"No!" Chagny pounded his fist against the wall. "What's wrong with her? What did you do to her?! What the hell did you do to her?!" He stood there with his arms spread out helplessly and incredulously. And with tears streaming down his cheeks. Raoul Chagny was crying.

And, oddly, the sight almost made _him_ want to weep. "I will fix her," he muttered.

He wanted to take her and hide away…hide from what he had done to her. To go somewhere dark where no light could reach and hold her until she was somehow better. Isolation was an instinct. But he paused at the door. And he realized –

He realized that he might need help. He had so much experience with killing people.

And so little experience with keeping them alive.

Inhaling, he turned to face the boy. "What did you tell the authorities?"

Chagny glared as he responded, "Nothing."

"This would be the absolute worst time to lie to me. I need to know whether they are coming with guns drawn. What did you tell them?"

"I couldn't say anything! What the hell was I going to say? I couldn't tell them my ex-girlfriend just tried to kill me. Because-" Chagny swallowed. "That's not her, is it? It can't be. Is it?!"

"No."

"Did you do this to her?"

"No. Not intentionally."

"What—"

"I do not have time for these questions. If you called, the police may still come. She, or rather the thing inside her, may wake up. And that will create a confrontation that cannot happen. Now listen to me. I can disappear with her, and you can release yourself from this situation. You can forget this night. Or you can do exactly as I say. And possibly be of help. To her."

"Why didn't you just leave her alone?" Chagny asked through gritted teeth.

"I will ask only more time for your assistance. Of course you hate me. Perhaps more than I hate you right now. A miracle, yes? But I am the only one who can fix this."

Chagny shook his head, his shoulders falling. "How do I know this isn't another setup like at the cabin? Where you kill us both? How do I know you're not evil?"

"You do not know that. You don't know anything. Nor do I this night, except that I must save her. And I cannot talk any longer." He turned to leave. She twitched in his arms, and he feared the thing would return.

"Wait. I want to help," Chagny mumbled. "I want to help her."

"Fine. Brilliant. You will drive, then." The boy's mistrust seemed to lessen as he was given some control. "I will give directions. Take one suspicious turn, and that will be it for you."

Chagny took the key, and they headed outside. "Where are we going?"

"An apartment that I keep. The building is half-empty. No one will notice if there is noise. We will have to keep her restrained." He mentally went through a list of supplies they would need. For physical immobilization. For sedation, if that would even work.

He held her in the backseat as the boy started the vehicle. While he did not entirely trust Chagny, the decision to include him ended up being the correct one. They were barely a mile down the road. Black eyes soon stared up at him. He braced himself and tightened his grip.

"Release me!" _it _snapped. He didn't respond, clenching his jaw and staring forward. He hated looking into her eyes, seeing the changes. "I'm going to kill her!" _it_ taunted. "You should see what I have already done to her mind! Now release me before I do something worse!" Chagny was staring at the rearview mirror in horror. The boy swerved and then grabbed the wheel.

"Keep your eyes on the road," _he_ commanded. "Ignore it. It is not her. "

"It's not me," said Chagny. "Something's pulling the car to the side."

"I will kill her!" _it_ growled. "Release me so that I can find a fresh body. Or I will kill her!"

"You will not," he replied, forcing himself to stare into its eyes. "Because then you will die, too."

"I can still make her miserable." The thing jerked forward as hard as it could and slammed her head into the window glass. With a cry of rage, he adjusted his arms. If he'd held any tighter, he would have crushed her ribs.

After squirming and twitching, all _it _could do was taunt. "How does it feel, Erik, being like the rest of them? Weak. Useless. Except you'll never be quite like the rest of them, will you? You'll always be a freak."

"_Shut up!" _There was something especially hellish about Christine's voice saying these things to him. Chagny nearly drove off the road again. "Watch where you are going!" he screamed at the boy. "Ignore it!" Yet he could barely take his own advice.

"Always a freak," _it_ repeated. "And I am destroying the only female who preferred a freak in—" He clamped a hand over her mouth. _It_ unsuccessfully tried to bite him. "You're going to lose, Erik." Those were its last muffled words before he felt the body go limp again. Silence.

His hand dropped from her icy lips. He stared forward, his heart crumbling. His mind was numb. It took him ten seconds before he realized the boy was speaking to him.

"What is it?" asked Chagny over and over. "What the hell is it?"

"Call it whatever you like. Monster. Demon. Something that has haunted me my entire life."

"Did you know it could go into her?"

"No. If I had-"

"How do we get it out of her?"

The boy's questions were grating at his wavering sanity. Before he could give a harsh response, she groaned. He tightened his grip, preparing for another battle, more mental than physical. Her body wriggled.

Beautiful blue eyes stared upward. She blinked. "Oh," she moaned. She started to panic, gasping for breath and squirming. "Help me!"

"Is_ that_ her?" asked the boy.

He released a soft cry and gently turned her to face him. "Look at me, Christine. Be calm and look at me." She did so, her mouth hanging open. "Christine, what have you done?" he whispered, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Erik?" she whimpered. "Are you okay?"

"I am fine, but that is inconsequential!"

"Is Raoul okay?" Her eyes filled with tears. "I have this feeling - It tried–"

"Yes, he is also fine. And doing a horrendous job of driving, I might add." He attempted humor, trying to keep her calm.

"You're in the same car together?" She gave a short sniffle of a laugh. "That's not good." Whatever was left of her smile vanished, and she stared up at him. "Erik, I don't want to hurt you."

"I lived with that thing for forty years; it does not scare me." There was little time, and she was already fading again. "Listen to me," he began in a grave voice. "You must give this back to me, Christine. Darling, you must give this back to Erik. Yes? Right now."

"I can't—"

"No!" he growled. "You have no choice in this matter. Return it!"

"I—" She shook her head and gulped. "I'm going to be sick. This is too tight. I'm going to throw up."

Chagny pulled to the side of the road. _He_ quickly untied her and threw open the door. Christine leaned out of the vehicle and vomited onto the median. With shaking hands, he held her hair back from her face and kept her from falling out of the car. There was only bile left in her now. She needed water.

Chagny turned around. "Baby, you have to do what he says," the boy pled. "Get that thing out of you. Please! Before it kills you!"

She brushed her hair from her tear and sweat-soaked face. "I can't," she murmured, leaning back against his narrow chest. Her voice was soft and weak. "I don't want to. But even if I did, the bargain is done. It can't go back to him like before. Erik's free." She shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Raoul. I never meant for you to be a part of this."

Chagny stared at her as though he didn't recognize her, pain and fear twisting his features. With a heavy heart, _he_ ordered the boy to pull the car back onto the road before someone spotted them. Chagny pounded his fists against the wheel once and then sped back onto the road.

"Did you do this intentionally?" _he_ asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Why?" He clutched her hand. "Why would you do this?"

"You were suffering. And you were going to leave."

"For you!" he snapped. "I wanted you to have a chance! And now – "

She didn't react to his anger. Unable to lift her head, she pulled his hand up to her face. She found his new shriveled finger and stroked it with her thumb. "Now you can play the violin again."

"Perhaps I hate the violin." He resorted to the schemes of a three-year-old. Because there was no real way to convince her that he'd been better off before.

"Then the piano. Are you any good at that?" she gently teased.

"I hate the piano, too. I preferred having fewer fingers. And fewer teeth. So really you would be doing Erik a favor by giving the thing back to him. Yes?"

She mouthed those precious three words for the second time.

His chest swelled with such love and pain that he thought he might have a heart attack. What a mundane way to go, compared to forty years of unspeakable torture. "What have I done to you? But, Christine, you are going to - We must get it out. We must by any means necessary."

"Then it'll just hurt someone else," she whispered. "It wants v-vulnerable people. It wants to be around the sick and the desperate. But we can't let it. My mother said that maybe I could and I think…." Her voice tapered off.

"Your mother is alive? What?!" She was weakening, and it was difficult to understand her.

"No. Her letter. She said I could kill it."

"Where is this letter?" He tilted her chin and forced her to maintain eye contact. "Where can I find it?"

"E-mail," she mumbled. "I have to go again. I'll try to keep_ it_ from coming back out. It's so strong. And it hates everything."

"Christine—"

"I forgot some things already. It takes things." She began to softly ramble, and he didn't have the heart to interrupt her again. "I don't remember third grade anymore. Isn't that weird? Just fourth and second. And a girl with braids who stole all my animal erasers; she said she was my friend. But she wasn't a very good friend. That's all of third grade. And then things get mixed up. I tried to tell my dad that I went on a second date with Raoul last night. But that doesn't make any sense, does it? And I wish…I wish I could keep all the memories…." She softly sighed, and her eyes closed. Her chest slowly rose and fell.

"Give it back to me! Give it back to me! Damn it!" He backhanded the car door in rage.

"What did that mean?" Chagny frantically asked. "What letter?"

He gripped his temples with one hand. "We will find out soon."

"I still don't get why she did to herself! Why would she do this? What was she thinking?"

He refused to answer to that question. He refused to tell the boy the truth – that he wished to go back in time a year. And to let them be, let them have their golden-haired children and Golden Retriever, let them go on believing that monsters only existed in fairy tales. Let them have their happiness. Yet no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, he could not go back in time. His love and the monster simultaneously rested in his arms.

"Erik?" This was the first time that Chagny had addressed him by name; he didn't know how he felt about that.

Perhaps simply exhausted.

"What?" he muttered.

"This probably has nothing to do with anything. But I just remembered that this guy called me a few weeks ago. He was British or something. He said to call him if I noticed Christine doing anything strange."

_He_ sharply glanced up. "You did not tell him anything, did you?"

"No! This was weeks ago. I didn't know she was still messing around with-" Chagny stopped. A pause. "Do you know who he is? Could he help her?"

"If this man is who I think, he is a possible threat to her now."

"Oh. Damn. But we have to do something!"

"Really?" he snapped. "I was not aware of that! Will you hush up and let me think? I must think."

This was a possession. He could only see three options. Terrible options.

Locate some sort of religious figure, anyone nearby, and demand an exorcism. That was unlikely to be useful. The moron would probably flee the building the second a cup tipped over.

Or-

Contact this John and see if he could be of any use. At least he had knowledge of the creature. Perhaps he could perform a more competent exorcism. Such a meeting would have to be carefully designed, for John would hang if he harmed a hair on her head. Perhaps too risky.

Or do what the thing wanted. Present _it _with a new banquet of victims to jump into. A hospital. A prison. Somewhere. Anywhere but in her. That idea was looking better by the moment. She would not approve, would see it like the ritual, but….

1:52 AM.

What next?


	36. Chapter 36

So many thanks on that last chapter for all your support! I'm happy everyone liked it. And you all seemed to enjoy the Erik and Raoul alliance. I wonder how long that'll last? ;) This chapter is a bit more transitional but still important. I think the total chapter count is going to be about 42.

**Read and Review!**

What was happening beneath those closed, fluttering eyelids? Was _it_ torturing her? Were they locked in some sort of ethereal battle? Neither she nor the creature awoke during the rest of the drive.

He ordered Chagny to stop at an open retail store. A mess of bright fluorescent lights, stray shopping carts, and signs announcing a seventy-five percent discount on all hardware supplies. Despite the hour, a few bleary-eyed people sauntered about the parking lot. "Get water," he said, sensing his own thirst. "Some sort of food."

"Like soup? Or chips? Or—"

"Whatever she will enjoy. Also purchase ropes or ties. Something softer, if they have it. I do not have to explain their purpose to you. Then pillows. Blankets. Towels. Female clothing—perhaps that one would wear to bed."

"Pajamas?"

"….Toiletries that would be necessary."

"All right then. I'll be right back." Chagny checked his surroundings and then jogged toward the entrance.

"I do not know how you tolerated him for so long." He talked to her in the silence. "I already wish to wring his neck. But I will not. Because that makes you unhappy, doesn't it, my love?"

At least Chagny was swift, back within twenty minutes. The boy threw the plastic sacks into the trunk then drove them to the complex. The lot was dark and empty. While _he_ held Christine, Chagny carried half the items. Without a word, they entered the glass doors and climbed multiple flights of stairs. He refused to be trapped in an elevator with that creature.

The apartment was basically empty. He'd never imagined bringing her back here. He'd been on the verge of giving up everything, of abandoning life and all his silly possessions. As Chagny ran back downstairs to grab the remaining items, including a laptop that was stored in the trunk, _he_ spread out a thick white comforter for her to lie on. He gently tied her arms against her torso, then covered her body with a red felt blanket. Chagny returned and dropped the remaining sacks on the living room floor.

_He_ stated, "I will need other supplies."

The boy rubbed the back of his head and glanced at her. "Um. I could run back out. And you could stay with her."

"Unless you want to meet a shady man in an alleyway or burglarize a pharmacy, you will have to stay with her for a short period of time."

"What—"

"We will obtain a supply of benzodiazepines and antipsychotics to experiment with in a desperate situation. I would rather use them than have that creature try to chew her tongue off—or worse. I do not know if they will be effective, but—" But all cards were in play that night.

Chagny turned a little green. "Oh. Yeah. I can, uh, stay here then."

"Good." _He_ propped her head up with a pillow and made sure she was breathing normally. In the light, it was disturbingly clear how sick the creature was making her. Her skin had a greyish tint, and her lips were nearly blue. She looked dead. His heart constricted. No, he would not think about that horrendous conclusion. Time was invaluable.

First things first. Kneeling beside her, he opened a small laptop. He connected to the Internet and logged into her primary e-mail. He hadn't monitored it since the winter, had given her privacy. He had tried to be a good _friend_ to her. And yet even that had exploded in his face.

His eyes immediately fell on a new and unread e-mail, right below a piece of spam advertising zero percent interest loans.

From Johnathan M. 8:25 PM.

_Dear Christine,_

_I just wanted to touch base with you again. I hadn't heard from you since I sent your mother's letter. I was disappointed, but I know that you may still be thinking this through. It is a big decision. Please call me at one of the two numbers below if you would like to talk more. I look forward to our conversation._

_Kindest regards,_

_John_

He searched for John's last e-mail to her. He found it as well as the attachment. His hands gripped the flexible screen as he leaned forward to read.

Christine had withheld certain details, such as just how involved her mother had been with the supernatural. He immediately understood why she had allowed the creature to possess her; she'd thought she could kill it. From the inside, as the letter suggested. He thought back to the diary entry. The thing had jumped out of him to save itself and to torture her. For one evening, the Angel and the Devil had agreed on the same path.

A soft moan escaped her lips, but she didn't awaken. He brushed her hair from her damp face.

Like John, he was highly skeptical of Jocelyn's letter. Jocelyn seemed like a kind and unassuming human being. Much like her daughter. So unlike him and the selfish and manipulative people he had dealt with in his lifetime.

But kindness sometimes came with the price of naivety. Jocelyn and Christine did not comprehend what they were up against. Thousands of years of evil contained within one entity? All concentrated in a frail girl barely on the brink of adulthood?

No, _he_ would have to take this into his own hands.

"Find anything?" Chagny asked.

Before he could reply, her body twitched.

Black eyes. He pinned her shoulders to the ground. "Keep her legs still," he ordered before Chagny could step away. The boy put his hands above her ankles but refused to look at her face.

The reflective eyes blinked at him. Her tongue ran over her lips, wetting them.

"What are you doing, Erik?" _it_ asked. It coughed. "I need water." He glared. "As does she. This is still her body, isn't it? Do you want her to die of dehydration?"

He held up a bottle of water to her lips. The action felt horrid, providing fluids to this creature. Still, he had to act in Christine's best interest.

After drinking,_ it_ inhaled and leaned back onto the pillow. "I am going to be completely honest with you, Erik. And you, Raoul." She glanced at the boy and kissed the air in his direction, mocking him. Chagny stared at the carpet, willing himself away. "I have had my fun. Erik, seeing the look in your eyes when you first found me in here – that was the greatest delight of the century. Priceless."

_He_ refused to respond to its cruelty.

_It_ continued, "Now it is time for a more serious conversation, though, isn't it? You want her alive; I want out. Fortunately, these two objectives go together flawlessly. So here is what you must do. Take her to a mental institution. Leave her there for, hm, let's say a week. I will choose a new body. You will not know which one, and that is the point. Then you will retrieve her. She is damaged; that is your punishment. But she will be alive. And we will part ways."

_He_ clenched his jaw and snarled, "I will not leave her alone with you inside her. Ever."

The thing sighed in irritation. But her head bobbed up and down. "Fine. You determine how this will work. I have two conditions. First, I need a supply of mentally unbalanced people. Secondly, you cannot know which one I choose; I will not have you interfering. Perhaps you could take her and request a tour of an institution, under the guise that she may have to be admitted? Perhaps an institution won't even be needed. Take her into any large crowd of people. A stadium. A carnival. The odds are that one of them would be a good fit for me. Insanity is plentiful in this country."

"How do you know I will not bomb the crowd of people just to destroy you?"

"Ah. There is the Erik I grew to adore. How I miss him." Her chapped lips formed a wry smile. "But really? Incinerating hundreds of innocent souls simply to kill me? I think she has softened you far too much for that. Now I know you hate me. But you love her more than you despise me, right? Think about that. Time is short. The longer I stay in here, the more damage I do." It yawned. "I will see you soon, my pathetic friend. Hopefully, you will have made a wise decision." The spiteful smile faded from her lips. Her eyes closed, and her face relaxed.

He released her shoulders. Turning away from the boy, he removed the mask and rubbed his hands over his itching face. He tried not to lose his mind.

Chagny softly asked, "Are we going to listen to it?" He didn't reply. Even though he knew the answer. The irritating boy continued, "Did you find anything in her e-mail?"

He put his mask on and handed Chagny the laptop. "You may read her mother's letter."_ He_ paced the room, needing to relieve the tension in every joint and muscle.

"I don't get it," said Chagny after five minutes.

"What don't you _get_? She and her mother possess a psychic connection to the supernatural. They believed they could take the creature into themselves and destroy it. And that is why—" He thrust his hands toward Christine. "_This_ has happened."

"So you don't think she can destroy it?"

"No. I do not. I think it was a sweet but misguided attempt."

Chagny scrolled through her other e-mails. "Jesus. Look at all the books she bought on this stuff. No wonder she never had time for anything else. _A Field Guide to Demons_? What the hell? Hm. Hey. This guy, John…."

"That is likely who phoned you. Him or one of his associates. They wanted her to help them locate and capture the creature."

Chagny glanced up. "So you think he would try to hurt her? You don't think he could help? I mean, he seems to know about this creepy stuff. More than anyone else would."

"I do not want him near her."

"But—"

"Erik?" They both sharply glanced down as she spoke. Blue eyes. Placing a hand against her back, he helped her sit up. She coughed, and he quickly placed the bottle of water to her lips. Christine sipped it.

"How are you feeling?" Chagny asked.

She looked between them as they hovered over her. Then she swallowed and glanced at the floor. A touch of red managed to find its way into her pale cheeks.

"Christine?"_ he_ asked. "What is wrong?"

"Um. I need to use the bathroom please."

* * *

><p><em>Snap. Crunch. Twang.<em>

The sound of nails being ripped from plaster. Raoul stood back and watched as Erik tore the mirror from the bathroom wall and tossed it in another room. Returning, he commanded, "Scan the entire area for sharp objects or glass."

Raoul tiredly obeyed, gathering up a single bent nail. He didn't see anything else. Erik pushed past him and inspected it a second time. Untied, Christine sat on the floor and watched them as though they were part of a circus routine.

Raoul would have felt more comfortable walking a tightrope or juggling bowling pins. "You doing okay?" he asked her, wiping the white powder from the plaster onto his jeans.

"Yeah," she softly replied, giving him a half-smile. "Thanks for doing all this. You didn't have to."

"Sure I did."

Erik stepped in between them. "You will not lock the door," he said to her. "Come out immediately if you feel the creature attempt to return. Call out if you begin to lose consciousness. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I won't take any chances." She crawled into the bathroom. She shut the door behind her with a click.

And they stood there, utterly on edge. She could have called out for more toilet paper, and they probably would have dove into the bathroom in a panic.

Maybe that was why Raoul sort of trusted Erik right now. For once in his life, Raoul understood what the masked, kind-of-crazy man was thinking. How do we save her? He still blamed Erik for this—blamed him for taking the pretty, fun beauty that Raoul had asked out two years ago and turning her into this ghost of a girl who read demon books.

But blame did little good now. And Erik was currently the only one who could help.

They both flinched when the shower turned on.

Raoul started to ask, "Should we—"

Erik was already at the door. "What are you doing?"

"I smell like throw-up," she weakly replied. "I feel so disgusting."

"Ugh. Fine. Be quick." Erik paced again.

The shower turned off within two minutes. Her slightly damp head poked out. "Is there anything else I can wear?" she asked, out of breath.

"Yeah," Raoul replied. "New pajamas. Is that okay?"

"That's great. Thank you." She took the black and white checkered pants and pine green t-shirt. The door closed again. Within several minutes, she crawled out on her own, fully dressed. She made her way back to the white comforter and collapsed onto the pillow. She panted as though she'd just run a marathon. Within another minute, she was unconscious again.

"Will you be able to stay with her for a short time without an utter disaster?" Erik asked in a somber voice. He knelt down to redo the bindings around her arms and torso. He tied her legs together just above the ankles. "I think she will remain asleep."

"Uh, yeah," Raoul replied as his heart skipped a beat. He was still terrified of being alone with that thing.

Erik tossed a phone to him. "Phone me immediately if either she or the creature awakens. Push the one, and it will dial automatically. If the situation calls for it, pin her to the ground. I do not think the creature will be strong enough to fight back. They are both weakening, it seems. They are both…." His voice tapered off, but Raoul sickly finished the sentence in his head. Erik left.

Alone with her in the silence, Raoul stared helplessly at the carpet for several minutes. It was too painful to look at her. Needing to feel like he was doing something, he searched the Internet for solutions. Outside of psychiatric treatment, which would most certainly not help in this situation, all he could find was information about exorcisms. Did they need a priest?

Her body twitched, and Raoul jumped. She stayed asleep. Casting a wary glance at her every couple of seconds, he continued his search. The process of getting an exorcism wasn't exactly straightforward. Not every priest was allowed to conduct them. The priest had to get permission from a bishop. Raoul hadn't been raised Catholic, and so half of the stuff didn't make sense to him.

He looked back at John's e-mails. At least here was a guy who knew something about the supernatural. His messages to Christine were calm and reasonable. Before Raoul could make any sort of decision, Erik returned. "How is she?"

"Asleep the whole time," Raoul replied.

"The second that one of them awakens, I will act."

"What will we do?"

"What _it_ wants. I have thought this through; that is the only way."

Raoul's stomach turned as his moral compass spun around and around. "Do you think she'll-?"

She stirred as they both stared down at her. Christine moaned and turned her head from side to side as though having a bad dream. She struggled in her bindings. And then - blue eyes.

"How you doing?" Raoul asked, so relieved to see her again.

"Exhausted," she muttered. "I have to keep running and running."

"No," said Erik, kneeling beside her. "I am perfectly capable of handling this. You do not need to go anywhere—"

"No," she gently interrupted. "I didn't mean it like that. When I sleep, I have to run. _It_ follows me in my head."

Neither of them had much to say to that. And Erik was losing patience. After giving her water, he began the conversation. "I found the e-mail. I understand what you apparently thought you could do."

"It didn't quite go according to plan," she murmured.

"That is the understatement of the millennium," Erik replied.

"I thought it'd go into me. And I'd just zap it with my amazing mental strength." She gave a short, disheartened laugh. "Whoops."

"So we must remove _it_," Erik continued.

"But it can't go into anyone else," she protested. "How do we do that without making sure no one else is hurt?"

"We do not. That is not possible. The only way to destroy _it_ is if the body dies. And I will not let you die." His long fingers curled at his sides. "That cannot happen."

"But my mother thought—"

"And she was wrong! Put that goddamned letter out of your head before it does any more damage! She did not know what she was saying. We must put the creature into another person and then deal with _it _from there."

"We can't!" She choked and tried to raise her head. "We can't hurt anyone else. We have to make sure it never comes back!"

Raoul raised his palms out toward her in frustration. "Then what do you want us to do, Christine? I don't get what you want."

She bit her lip. "I don't know yet. I need time to—"

"You do not have time!" Erik shouted. "You are going to die, do you understand?" He ran out of the room and returned with the mirror. He faced it toward her. "Look at yourself." She frowned at her reflection and started to turn away. "No! Look! Do not hide from the truth! You look like death! Believe me, I would know! We do not have time!" A tear streamed down her cheek. Her lip quivered, and her head kind of fell against her shoulder.

Raoul came to her side and tried to put a calmer face on this dilemma. "Christine," he began, putting a hand on her arm. "We could put this thing somewhere else temporarily. Maybe we could even put it in animal or something. I don't know. But we…we—" He choked. "We can't stand seeing you like this, okay? Now I know—"

"No, Raoul. I made this choice. I let it come into me. No one else should have to suffer for that!"

"I get what you're saying. But are you really going to let it kill you?"

"No! You both have to give me some more time to figure it out." She looked toward Erik. "I promise it'll be okay," she said, reaching out to him. But Erik would not take her hand. "Give me some time. It'll be okay."

"It will not be goddamned _okay_!" he snapped. "What have I done to you? What the hell have I done! I wish I had never met you!" He stormed away with the mirror.

An echoing boom and a crash in the adjacent room. The clink of class shattering. Raoul winced and ducked.

Goodbye mirror.

Christine took a shuddery breath. A few more tears dripped down her cheeks.

"O-kay," murmured Raoul, exhaling. "Let's not talk about that right now. Let's chill for a second here." Raoul was grateful for even a moment alone with the real Christine. Erik made him really tense, kind of like when he'd handled his cousin's boa constrictor. You told yourself it wouldn't hurt you but….

"How'd you even find me tonight?" she softly asked. He told her about Jessica's call and the hellish aftermath. "God," she said, shaking her head. "I'm so sorry. I was so freaked out that I just ran."

"Well. Luckily, uh, Erik came when he did. But…" Raoul glanced up, wondering if Erik was listening. Probably. Still, Raoul whispered, "Why is he still here? Has he been stalking you? Did he come back to you after the cabin—"

She immediately killed his stream of accusations. "Blame everything on me. Everything that happened after the cabin, these were my choices. I offered him my friendship. I wanted to help him." She told him parts of the story. Raoul learned about Erik's past and relatives…details about the demon creature and the bargain… Christine's meeting in Nebraska with John and the other two men. Sometimes she seemed to have a hard time remembering things, which was concerning. Erik stepped into the room once, but he refused to look at them. Her sad eyes followed his movements.

"You can stop if you're tired," Raoul said as her voice faltered. "I understand some of it now. I just can't believe you kept this from me."

She looked down. "You would have tried to stop me."

"You're damn right I would have!" He sighed and lowered his voice. "Sorry. But look at what's happened! There's a frikin' demon inside of you! A demon! If Erik was going to leave, if he was finally going to do the right thing for everyone, why would you stop him?"

"He was going to suffer, Raoul. For the rest of his life. And I couldn't let that happen to him. I—"

"And now you're suffering!"

"I'm still figuring it out. But look how long I've managed to stay awake. And hold _it_ back. It's getting weaker. It doesn't like being inside me! It's scared!"

"_It_ is scared because you are going to die!" Erik exclaimed from behind him, causing them both to jump. "And it will die with you!_ It_ is smart enough to know this! Why the hell aren't you? I have thought this over a thousand times. Christine, we must simply give it another body!"

"No! I won't do it! I'll hold it back!"

Raoul broke in. "Let it go into me, then? How about that? I'll do it. Willingly."

"No! What good would that do? I won't let it go into anyone else! I'm the one who can stop it!"

"You do not have a choice!" Erik screamed. "We are going out right now and getting rid of it! For good!"

"Just think about this," said Raoul.

She glared at both of them, her eyes wide and her heading frantically shaking back and forth. "I won't! I won't! I won't come back till it's dead!" She collapsed back onto the pillow with a sharp sob. Her eyes rolled back into head and her lids closed.

"No," Raoul moaned, grabbing her arm.

Erik released a howl of anguish. He began to speak to the creature, trying to coax_ it_ back to consciousness. "Come out, you vile fiend! I am going to give you what you want! Come out now! I will get you hundreds of new bodies! All the exquisite disgusting human bodies than you want! Come out!" Her eyes twitched but remained closed. Her fingers curled at her sides. She was holding _it_ back. She was fighting all three of them now. "Get out of her!" Erik screamed, grabbing her shoulders.

Raoul stood and backed away, shaking.

"Get out of her!" Erik continued to yell over and over. "Come back to me! Come back, and I will give you someone new!" Her head rolled from side to side. Her appendages twitched.

"Stop!" Raoul yelled at him. "You're making her worse! You're making the fight harder for her!"

Erik whirled to face him, eyes burning yellow. "Then what do you suggest I do?" he nearly hissed.

"An-An exorcism? We could try that. That's what the-the Internet says to do."

"Oh. Wonderful! The ultimate authority on everything! And whom do you suggest we ask? I can assure you that I am about as far away from being a holy man as you are from a Nobel Prize in Quantum Physics! So do you have any idea what you're doing?" Raoul looked down. "I did not think so. So who did you have in mind? Shall I go kidnap a priest? Perhaps I should." Erik actually seemed to consider it. "Perhaps I should. Oh, hell, I could kidnap the Pope himself, and he would not know what to do with this. None of them do! Useless idiots!" He looked back at her and roared, "Get out of her! Get out of her now!"

Raoul stared at the unraveling situation with growing horror. At his dying ex-girlfriend, whom he still loved. And the masked man, terrifying and desperate and crazy, screaming at her limp body.

His heart plunged. And Raoul did the only thing he could of. He e-mailed John using Christine's account, replying to the man's last message. A simple question. _Can you do an exorcism?_

Erik finally stopped screaming at her. Collapsing to the carpet, his legs folding into a kneeling position, he buried his masked face into his hands. Her body stopped twitching and relaxed.

Silence. An eerie peace. Erik didn't move.

Twenty minutes passed. Raoul felt the effects of a sleepless and horrific night creeping upon him. But he knew sleep would be impossible. As 4 AM rolled in, there was a response. John must have been in a different time zone. Or really desperate to hear back from her.

_Dear Christine,_

_As I told you, it's not possible to do an exorcism in this situation. The creature and the human are one being, one evil. You are thinking of a possession, in which a demon has invaded a human body. Very different. I hope that you understand this and will still help._

_Sincerely,_

_John_

Raoul quickly replied,

_Okay. But if there were a possession, would you be able to perform an exorcism? Have you done them before?_

An instant reply. John was clearly curious now. Raoul felt his stomach tense. Had he given away too much?

_Christine,_

_Yes, I have performed several in cases of possession. Why do you ask? Maybe we should talk soon. I think this conversation is better held in person. Let's meet again. I can be there in a day or so._

_John_

Raoul replied: _I'll call soon. Thanks._

With shaking hands, Raoul deleted the last e-mail exchanges. Erik was still hunched over with his face hidden, a creepy statue. Raoul discreetly closed the laptop. He stood, needing a moment alone. "Uh, I'm going to step outside for some air." Maybe he'd find a payphone. He'd start to explain the situation to John without giving away their location.

They desperately needed help. Raoul could provide a voice of reason, but he didn't have the knowledge to fix this problem. He felt useless. And Christine was insanely stubborn. And Erik was just insane. They needed someone else.

Christine needed to be singing and laughing at ducklings and complaining about her classes and playing with her hair and shopping and giggling at stupid jokes. And not here…not possessed…not _dead._

Raoul took a deep breath and made his way toward the door, more confident in his decision.

A large hand clamped roughly down on his arm. He turned and saw two very angry yellow eyes.

"What the _hell_ did you just do?!"

He was lifted into the air and slammed up against the wall.

Raoul feared imminent death.

* * *

><p>It took all of her mental energy to stop the creature from bursting into consciousness again. She desperately pushed back at the pool of wavy darkness. The thing fought for control of her limbs and voice. She clung to her body. Her head ached and pounded, and at some points, Christine barely knew who she was or where she'd come from.<p>

She'd tried running at first. She'd hidden in good memories. That's why she'd chosen third grade. A fun year except for the eraser thief. But Christine had stayed there too long. And now there was an empty space between second and fourth.

She could tell when the thing was approaching. The memory would change into something she didn't recognize. Someone would say something weird. Like her third grade teacher, a delicate brunette fresh out of school, had suddenly asked, "Who wants to stay forever? Who wants to die here?"

Or the little red-headed boy sitting next to her, Andy, had said in his nasally voice, "You're not getting away, you know? You're not even supposed to be here, silly."

She couldn't hide in her memories without forgetting her entire life.

Next, she tried hiding false memories. She made up a scene where her father was still alive, still playing his guitar and talking about the 'good old days' with his band, making it to old age. And she made up one where she was slow-dancing with Erik in the middle of a lit up ballroom, her head resting on his suited shoulder as soft piano music played. She wore a long, satin lavender dress. Her arms were wrapped around his neck; his long hands held her waist. That was the best of all.

But she couldn't hide anymore, not without giving the thing power over her body and releasing the creature into the world. She pushed back, sensing_ its_ desperation to escape. Her anger at both Erik and Raoul tripped her up, made her feel more isolated in her already lonely mind. But she knew they only acted out of love. They fought her out of fear.

_It_ hit her with several terrifying visions. She was becoming used to them, if one can become accustomed to history's greatest horrors. A graphic war movie or documentary in 3-D.

"You have no friends or lovers left,"_ it_ told her in a sickly sweet whisper, turning to taunting. "They are all against you. They are on my side now!"

"That's a lie," she replied. "They just want me to be okay."

"You are not going to be. By refusing to free me, you are killing yourself. Let me go."

"I won't. You're not going to hurt anyone else."_ It_ hated being inside her. It hated everything about her. And it wasn't done with her yet.

She was suddenly standing next to the side of her father's open coffin. She remembered. Sitting in the pew and staring at the blood-red carpet. The murmurs of sympathetic strangers who would forget about her by the next day. The trays of fruit and cheese and stale crackers at the reception. Flowers that died within a week. And, when everyone was gone, the lonely quiet.

At first, she thought _it_ was going to make her relive that day.

But the thing had an imagination, too.

She stared down at her father's body, the funeral program crumpled in her fingers. Two large hands shoved her forward, and she tumbled into the coffin. The lid slammed close. She was locked in the pitch-black casket with her dead father.

Christine lost it.

She pushed and screamed and scratched and pounded at the lid. She kicked. She rocked herself back and forth, trying to push the death box over. "Help me! Help me! Let me out! Help!"

Her dead father whispered, "You can't win, Christine. You're far too much of a disappointment. Just like your mother. You're both utter failures."

She shrieked and pounded with her fists. Anything to get out! Why wouldn't someone let her out? Please, please let her out! "Help! Help!"

Why wouldn't someone save her?

Because…

Because she was in her head. Only she could be there.

In this place, only she could save herself.

She stopped hollering. Her limbs fell back onto the upholstery that lined the coffin. Christine inhaled.

"You're going to die," her father whispered. "Let go of me. Or you are going to die."

"Then I guess I'm in the right place," she softly replied. She tried so very hard not be afraid.

This was not her father; he was at peace. A dead body couldn't harm her. As long as she could breathe, a coffin couldn't hurt her either. She exhaled slowly and stared upward at the darkness. She inhaled.

After a few moments, she pushed open the lid with no resistance. Light. Cold air.

The funeral scene faded.

Shaking and shivering, Christine desperately wanted to go back home, to the embrace of those who loved her. She wanted to tell Erik that it really was going to be okay.

Instead, she chased _it._


	37. Chapter 37

All righty. So the two chapters after this one should take us through the main climax. Hold onto your hats! :) Thank you all for your support!

**Read and Review!**

It was less about what Chagny had actually done—and more about the boy's defiance and secrecy.

Hunched over on the floor, his love dying at his feet,_ he_ had been silently thinking through their next options. What was left besides searching the supernatural for answers? John was the only individual who might not flee screaming. Anyone else would be a waste of her precious and diminishing time.

Still, he had no patience for those who crossed him. As soon as they'd arrived at the apartment, he'd reconnected her e-mail account to his phone. In his anguish, it had simply taken him a moment to feel the vibrations as new messages arrived. And then Chagny had attempted to hide the evidence. Stupid boy.

He gripped Chagny's collar; the tips of the boy's tennis shoes were barely touching the floor. "Well? What did you do? You have not answered Erik."

"I-I—" The boy stuttered, genuinely afraid. _Good._ "I-I pretended to be her. John doesn't know anything about this. I swear! Please. I just wanted to save her. Please. That's it. I just don't want her to d-d-die."

After literally leaving the boy hanging for several more seconds, _he _dropped Chagny before he became a sobbing mess. "Give me the phone." Chagny obeyed and stayed back. "You contact anyone else without asking me, and I will remove a finger. Do you understand?"

"I asked him if he can do exorcisms. She needs one. That's what has to happen, if she's not going to let that demon back out. We have to force it out. Right?"

"Did you ever consider that we could be tracked with the computer?"

Chagny's eyes widened. "Can we be?"

"No. Because, fortunately, that computer is idiot-proof."

"Oh. Good." Chagny ignored the insult. "But what are else are we going to do?" he asked, thrusting out his hands. "We have to take a chance on someone! Who else is there?"

"He might prioritize destroying the creature over saving her life."

"She's going to die anyway! But if you really think he'll hurt her, I'll tell him we can't meet. Or you can. I don't want that. I just…I don't know what to do anymore. So whatever." Chagny shrugged and stared at the floor. "Whatever."

_His_ anger dissolved into the despair of earlier. He stared at the e-mails. He despised asking for help. Invincibility had spared him that task more often than not. Yet now he was weak and useless. Every minute that ticked by was another minute closer to burying her. "We will set up this ridiculous meeting."

Chagny looked up. "Really?"

"Unless her condition drastically changes, that is our next step. I will go. You will have to stay with her."

"Maybe I should go to the meeting."

"That is a ridiculous idea," he scoffed. "It will not be the sort of suit-and-tie _meeting_ you are used to, Chagny. This man is knowledgeable, but he is also dangerous. If he can perform this miraculous exorcism, then I will give him whatever he desires. Including my head on a platter. And, if he is threat to her, he can be eliminated very quickly." Chagny shuddered. "As I said, you contact one more person without my permission, I will kill you."

He left the boy standing there in the darkened hallway. He knelt down beside Christine again. Her mouth was drawn into a straight and determined line. He touched her cheek and tried a gentler approach. "Child, quit fighting," he whispered. "This is not your battle. It never was. Let go, my love. Will you please let go?" But she wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't awaken. "Let go, damn it."

He refrained from screaming at her again. He opened the laptop and went forward with this inane idea.

His first reply to John sounded far too cold and formal.

_I was unable to call. Let's arrange a meeting. After thoughtful consideration….When you arrive, go to…._

He edited it several times to make it sound more like Christine, using her previous e-mails for inspiration.

_Sorry, but I couldn't get my phone to work. Let's go ahead and arrange a meeting by e-mail. After thinking about this, I've decided that I do want to help you with your mission. In fact, I think I've even located the host! I'm so scared, though. I hope that you can help me. We could meet at your hotel. I know of a really nice one…._Blah.

_Thanks for your help!_

_Christine_

He glanced at her sleeping form. "See what you have reduced me to?" he asked her. "Do you know how ridiculous it felt to write that?" It was of comfort to speak to her, even if she couldn't hear him. Hysterical insanity bubbled so closely to the surface. "I do not even know what you have turned me into," he told her. "I am no longer completely a monster. And not much of a man. I need you."

But she would not wake up.

John seemed to buy the entire thing, telling "Christine" how proud he was of her for making this decision. He was very eager to meet with her. After a few more e-mail exchanges, the plan was all in place. A three-star hotel. Another man, probably the same one that Christine had met, would accompany him. So there be would two to deal with. Two blindfolds. Two sets of handcuffs and ropes.

They thought they would be meeting with her in approximately twenty-six hours from now. In reality, it would only be about fourteen hours, assuming no delays.

_He _gathered his energy. "What a waste of time," he muttered, grabbing three crackers and a can of pineapples.

"What?" the boy asked, his eyes tired.

"Eating once a day is a complete a waste of time. As is sleeping. No wonder mankind is so slow to progress. Hours of uselessness."

Chagny shook his head and leaned back against the wall. _He_ ate in the other room. The last thing he needed was the boy gawking at his face.

Throughout the day, they were locked in a silent vigil beside her. Her breathing was steady. Her eyelids still fluttered, and a limb would occasionally twitch. At one point, _he_ closed his eyes, needing a moment of rest. He heard Chagny approach and whisper, "Come on, Christine. Don't do this, baby. Come back. Please. I'll do anything. Please, babe? Please?"

But she would not listen to either of them.

Christine's phone rang that afternoon. He looked at the screen, flinched, refrained from hurling the phone at the wall, and rejected the call. Yet he could not stop himself from listening to the voice message later that day. Call it a masochistic moment.

"Hello. Christine? This is Maddy. I feel so silly saying this, but I just wanted to check up on you. I had some bad dreams the last few nights and…and this weird feeling. I wanted to make sure you were okay. So just let me know. Remind me that I'm probably getting senile. Heh. Anyway, take care. Bye."

She called once more that day. Again, he rejected the call. She didn't leave a message that time.

_Ah, so you actually liked Christine? You actually cared about her? Well, Madeleine, I have destroyed her, too. Did you think Erik was finished wrecking your life? No such luck, my dear blood relation._

Evening approached. While Chagny had stepped away to use the bathroom, _he_ lifted the bottom portion of his mask and kissed Christine's clammy forehead. He was terrified to leave her for so long. He was frightened that she would die and not take him with her.

"You going to the, uh, meeting?" asked Chagny as he took a seat on the floor.

"Yes." He stood and began to gather the necessary supplies. "If she awakens, do everything in your power to keep her conscious. Promise her the entire world."

"And if the demon wakes up?"

"Tell it we will negotiate, and call me immediately. But do not untie either of them. I am leaving you a phone. For her sake. But I will know if you call anyone else, understand?"

"Can I call my mother?" Chagny asked. "I forgot to call her on Sunday. She might be-"

"No. No mothers."

"Fine." _He _headed toward the door. Before he could leave, the boy asked, "You're, uh, not really going to kill this guy, right? Heh. Right?"

He shrugged and didn't answer.

He didn't quite know yet.

* * *

><p><em>It<em> took her back to the cabin, back to one of the most terrifying days of her entire life. The day that had changed her forever. The day she'd learned that monsters truly lived in the closet and under the bed.

Christine opened her eyes and found herself paralyzed on the cold floor. She panicked at first, futilely trying to move her limbs. _Okay. No matter what happens here, it's not real. I've already won here._

The thing, using Erik's body, began the ritual with Meg. Candles and smoke and shadows. This time, though, Christine couldn't get up. She couldn't save her friend. The black, quivering blob rose up into the air and divided into two perfect halves. One half dove into Meg. "No!" Christine screamed. When her limbs wouldn't move, she concentrated, trying to use her mental energy to escape this false world.

Raoul burst into the cabin, and the thing instantly grabbed him by the neck. Christine shrieked as Raoul was slowly strangled to death. His head fell grotesquely to the side, his eyes still open in a frozen stare of horror.

"No! Stop! Stop! Let me out! This isn't real!"

Wearing only a white blanket that pooled at her bare feet, Meg slowly knelt beside her. She smiled eerily and touched Christine's tear-stained cheek with freezing fingers. "I'm going to have a baby soon," Meg said, touching her stomach. "Maybe you can babysit sometimes. Look what you've done to me. All because you're so selfish."

"I didn't mean to! I never meant to get either of you involved! But you were okay! Everything turned out okay!"

Meg giggled. "You can't win, Christine. Everything and everyone you touch gets destroyed. Your friends. Your lovers. So please just abandon this silly plan. Give up! And maybe you'll have something left."

"You should really give up," Raoul agreed, from where he lay dead on the floor. "Even if you don't care about yourself, you're ruining everyone else's life, too." The corpse smiled at her, his handsome face yellowed and twisted into someone unrecognizable.

And, for a moment, Christine did feel genuine regret. Not because she believed this was real. But because people were suffering. She could faintly hear Raoul's and Erik's voices, begging her to come back. She could hear their despair.

"But I can do this," Christine whispered, pulling herself to a sitting position. "I can come back when this is done."

"No, you can't," said Meg. "You'll die and leave them all alone. I'm sure Erik will be grateful that he can jump off a building and splatter into a million tiny pieces. What a waste. Saving him only to kill him? You should have let him fulfill his true destiny, you silly bitch."

"No." Christine pushed herself up, rising to her feet. "I won't die here. _You're_ going to die here. In my head. But I'm not!" Christine reached out and tried to grab the fake Meg. Meg and Raoul both disintegrated into ash and blew away in a cold gust of wind. The room darkened and then faded, closing the curtain on one of her worst nightmares. _What if the night at the cabin hadn't had a happy ending?_

Christine took a deep breath and prepared for the next fight. The black, grinning blob appeared in front of her. "Do you really know what you are playing with?" _it_ asked. "You haven't even begun."

Glaring, she dove at the creature, but _it_ disappeared once more. She fell through a rabbit hole and then drifted in limbo for God knew how long. She felt stronger, more certain of this path.

Then she was lying on a black sofa.

* * *

><p>One look at them—and <em>he<em> knew this was going to be incredibly easy.

John and Lorenzo may have seemed intimidating to Christine, with their knowledge and sternness and crisp suits and ties. But they were not all that cautious as they walked about their hotel. They likely had few enemies. It wasn't as though they lived in a fairy tale world where monsters constantly popped out from behind walls. They had a far better chance of being mugged.

As they unloaded their luggage that evening, he caught part of their conversation.

"And that's why I won't eat bananas anymore," said Lorenzo. "I mean, would you?"

"I guess not," replied John, chuckling. "Still, you're missing out on a lot of potassium."

"I take vitamins."

"It's not the same. There's nothing like real food."

"Bah!" said Lorenzo. "Hey. You go ahead inside. I'm going to give Nick a call and tell him that we're here. Reception is better."

"Sounds good. We'll see if there's anything to eat in this town. I'm tired of burgers."

John disappeared through a glass door at the side of the hotel. Lorenzo carried out a short conversation. "We're here. No, no problems. Great weather. Should be headed back by tomorrow evening. Don't know if this will amount to much. I'll fill you in later. Yes. Everything is fine. Have a good night."

_Five, four, three, two…._

_He_ came up from behind and soon had Lorenzo's neck wrapped within the crook of his arm. Lorenzo gasped but could make no other sound, his eyes widening as his oxygen was cut off. _He_ had the younger man restrained and in the back of his car within one minute. It took about five minutes for the injected sedative to take full effect.

Although he was no longer invincible, that did not mean all of the 'talents' he had developed in the last forty years had vanished. He simply had to be more cautious.

After twenty minutes or so, John walked outside. He squinted in the darkness. "Lorenzo? Where'd you go? Lorenzo? Answer me if you're out here." John became a little more interesting. After looking back and forth, he ran to the white car. Throwing open the back door, he reached beneath the seat and pulled out a black handgun. He held it at his side, pointing downward. "Lorenzo? This better not be a joke! I'm not exactly comfortable with this whole trip as it is."

"It is not a joke," _he_ softly replied, hiding behind a large SUV. He threw his voice so that it was nearly impossible to determine the origin.

"Who's there?" John whispered. He raised his gun. "Is this some sort of setup? Who are you?"

"You would not know me."

"What do you want? Where's my partner?"

"Alive," _he_ replied. "For now."

John continued to turn around and around. "Are you _him_?"

"Who?"

"You know exactly who I'm talking about! The host! Are you him? Why else would you be doing this? Are you him?"

"Perhaps." Let John think him invincible. Probably for the best.

"Shit." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a palm-sized wooden cross. He thrust it outward with his other hand.

"That is not really appropriate language for a man of God, is it?"

John shook his head, likely preparing to die. After all, he thought he was up against an invincible demon creature from hell. "Did you kill her already? Is Christine dead?"

"Almost." _He _felt a sting in his chest as he told the truth.

"Now you're going to kill me?"

"It really all depends."

"Look," John shakily began. "I can still offer you salvation. It's not too late for that! If you hand yourself over to me, to God, we can defeat this evil." John played his only card. "I can get you into the kingdom of heaven."

_He_ mirthlessly chuckled. "I thought that the host and the evil were one and the same? I thought I was far beyond help, beyond saving. Eternally damned and all that."

John hesitated. "If she is still alive and Lorenzo is still alive, then I can work with whatever remains of you. I will do my best. Please."

Really? This is who Chagny thought was going to save her? "Can you do an exorcism, John?"

"No," he softly replied. At least he was honest. "I cannot do that for you. It's not possible."

"But for a possession? Can you? Answer me."

"Why does that even matter?"

"Answer me. Your life and the life of your friend lie in the balance. As does Christine's."

"Yes, I have done them. Every case is very different. I have performed them successfully. But you're not possessed. You're—"

He'd heard enough. "Put your gun down." John gripped tightly to his weapon. "If you value your companion's life, put it down now."

"Why would you care? You can't be hurt by it!"

"So why do you care, if you believe that?" _he_ countered.

"Enough mind games!" the older man roared. "Are you toying me? What do you want?!"

"Put the gun down, Johnathan. And you will find out."

John lowered the gun but kept the cross high in the air. That was enough for him. _He_ dove forward and grabbed him around the neck, bending his wrist back and forcing him to drop the weapon. An extra gun was always useful.

Soon he had both men tied up and drugged in his back seat. He blindfolded them and divested them of all communication devices. He kept an eye on them in the rearview mirror, but they didn't awaken throughout the short and sad drive back to complex. _Please let her still be alive._

It was a bit tedious to carry them up the stairs. Chagny's mouth fell open when _he _dragged them through the front door.

_He _shrugged. "I told you it wasn't going to be your sort of meeting."

* * *

><p>Raoul felt his stomach twist into a knot. He'd just become an accomplice to an actual crime. Two counts of kidnapping. No doubt about that. He vaguely wondered if this could have transpired any other way.<p>

At the end of day, saving her life was worth a prison sentence or two.

"I hope they'll still help us after this," he said, dully staring at the unconscious men.

"As though they will have a choice," Erik replied. He immediately went into the other room to check on Christine. She'd slept the whole time; there'd been no change in her condition.

John awoke first, around 10 PM that night. His hands were still tied behind his back, but the blindfold was gone. He groaned and looked around. Raoul was kind of afraid he'd have a heart attack.

"Ah, perhaps you should go make nice with him," said Erik. "I think he would appreciate your face more than mine."

"Gee. Thanks," Raoul muttered. He crouched down next to the older man and nervously scratched the back of his head. "Look. I'm really, really sorry about this. I didn't want it this way, but-"

"Who are you?" John asked in a hoarse voice. He coughed several times.

Raoul got a bottle of water and held it up to John's lips. "Um. You called me once about Christine. I'm her…friend."

John drew back. "Has the host kidnapped you, too? Why else would you take part in this depravity?" Erik walked into the room with his arms crossed. John flinched. "You. You're him. I know it." He turned back to Raoul. "Do you know who that is? That is the greatest evil—"

"Yeah," Raoul tiredly interrupted. "I get it. Let's start from the beginning here." He tried to explain the situation to John without getting into too much detail. Lorenzo awoke fairly early in the story, and Raoul was spared telling it twice. "So. Whatever was in Erik, it's in her now. That's basically the bottom line. Can you help her?"

"I cannot believe this!" John exclaimed. The expression on his pale face was of no comfort to Raoul. "You're sure it's in her? You're positive? You're sure she's not just sick?"

Erik grunted. "I would recognize the creature that attached itself to me for forty years. It is no longer with me. Either it is in her, or the rumored mood swings of females are much worse than I ever imagined."

"I'm pretty sure that Christine wouldn't have tried to stab me in the neck," Raoul added, reflexively running a hand over his throat. "It's in her. I've never seen anything like it."

"The question is," Erik continued, leaning in toward John. "Is whether you sent that godforsaken letter to her, knowing that this could actually happen? Should I blame you for this?"

"N-no," John stuttered. "I had no idea! I didn't think it was possible. I thought it was the ranting of a crazy woman!"

"We didn't think the creature could change bodies." Lorenzo's voice was quieter, more thoughtful. "But we didn't know too much about it at all, to be honest. And we didn't know that Christine was directly interacting with, well, you. Otherwise, we have handled the situation differently."

"We sure would have!" John exclaimed. Erik seemed to believe them, leaning away and standing. "I can't believe she did this," John continued. "I had my suspicions that she knew more than she was letting on. But why would she go this far?" No one answered him. "Why would she do this?"

"They were friends," Raoul murmured. "Very good friends, apparently." He couldn't help but scowl at Erik as he said this.

"All that time!" John ranted. "The entire time she was speaking to us that day! She's been involved with…with…."

Lorenzo gave a soft, sad chuckle. "Isabella had feelings toward her host. I wonder if it's-"

"If it's _what_?!" Erik snapped. "Is there something else you three would like to say about all this? Go on!" He glared, daring them to go forward. "Well? Any more commentary?"

"Okay," said Raoul. "It's done, right? She's done this. So we want you to do an exorcism, if you can. It's a possession, so maybe an exorcism would work, right?"

"I don't know," said John in a gruff and irritated tone. "What we're dealing with is far beyond any of other encounters."

"But you'll try?" Raoul pressed.

"Are you going to kill us if we can't help her?" Lorenzo inquired.

"Why spoil the surprise?" asked Erik.

"No!" Raoul exclaimed, giving him a look. He turned back to the two men. "We'll let you go. All we ask is that you don't hurt her. If you can't help her, at least don't hurt her."

"That's fair enough," said Lorenzo with a glance at John. John's lips were tightly pressed together. Raoul trusted the older man much less now.

"Here," Raoul said, turning to Erik. "Let's show Lorenzo. Will you please untie him?"

Erik hesitated. Finally, he stepped forward and released Lorenzo's hands. Casting a wary glance at Erik, Lorenzo shakily stood, probably still feeling the effects of the drugs. He slowly followed Raoul into the other room, shaking his feet to get the blood flowing back to them. Erik accompanied them and stood over her, guarding her like a stone gargoyle, eyeing them both with deep suspicion. They kept the door open so that John was still visible.

"Oh, my," Lorenzo murmured, sorrow clouding his features. "She's really not well, is she? An enormous change from when I last saw her. Poor thing." He knelt at her side. "Can you hear me, Christine? Christine? Can you wake up?" She didn't respond. He didn't try to call out the creature. Lorenzo stood up straight, rubbing his chin as he continued to study her.

"Can you help?" Raoul asked. "Can you do anything?"

Lorenzo looked at Erik. "What exactly are your intentions, Sir? You are the former host…."

Erik tilted his head. "My intentions, _Sir_?"

"We were just brought here against our will. Illegally. Violently. This is not a good situation for John and me."

"Yes, well your intentions were quite clear during your conversation with Christine. Would you still like to imprison and dissect me, or have you changed your mind?"

"We knew very little," Lorenzo replied. "We worked with what we knew. Now we're here. And you have the upper hand. What are you going to do to us?"

It looked like Erik was going to say something regrettable, but the yellow eyes drifted down toward Christine. His gaze softened, and he quietly said, "You are only here because I want her to live. That is all I want in this entire world. I do not like you. I do not hate you. You are a means to this end. Harm her, and I will kill you. Save her, and you may have whatever you like. If you can do nothing for her then - I suppose I will do nothing. Except take her somewhere quiet for the final hours."

Raoul added, "We didn't want you to hurt her. To come here with weapons or a bunch of other people. Whoever you work for. And John—we still don't completely trust him."

Lorenzo sighed. "She clearly needs help. Let me speak to John for a few minutes. I need to convince him. This won't be easy. It might get very, very ugly in here. She might not survive it." Erik glared at him. "Not because of us. She might be too weak now. I don't know."

"Just do your best, please," Raoul pled. They returned to the other room. Lorenzo crouched down beside John, and they spoke to each other in low voices. John sounded frustrated. Lorenzo stayed calm. Raoul stood on one side of the room, his heart pounding. Erik stood on the other with his arms crossed, eyeing them.

Finally, Lorenzo stood with tired eyes and an uncertain expression.

"I still don't like it," said John. "But if you want her alive, that's the only way I'll consider this."

"What's up?" asked Raoul.

"If we pull this creature out of her," Lorenzo began, "and we're not saying we can, there are a couple of things that could happen."

"Such as?" Erik asked.

"Well, a complete miracle. She lives. The creature dies. Everything is fine."

"I like that scenario a lot," said Raoul. "But you're not done, are you?"

"There's also the good chance that the creature will want to go into someone else. And then we'd have to deal with that possessed person. We can't just do exorcism after exorcism in an endless loop. It's very dangerous even doing this once. John will only agree to this if someone is willing to…."

"To die," Erik finished with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If the creature chooses another person, that person dies. The end."

"Not necessarily die," Lorenzo murmured. "But we would permanently contain them. And possibly...possibly they wouldn't make it out of this alive."

Raoul stared at the floor as a heavy weight hit his chest. He opened his mouth.

But Erik spoke first. "Of course it will be me. It was always supposed to be, wasn't it? A year ago, I would have literally killed for this sort of death. Quick and painless. There is nothing wrong here."

John huffed. "I still don't like it. It's dangerous. How do we know it'll go into him? How do we know it won't fly out the window and go into a child? This was her choice! No one forced her to do this."

"You will save her," said Erik, taking slow steps toward him. His long fingers curled. "You will do everything in your power to save her, do you understand?"

"I said that I would try!" John retorted. "I can't make any promises."

"We will try," said Lorenzo. "But we'll need some things from our suitcases."

"Chagny can fetch them for you," said Erik.

"I should really call my—" John began before Erik cut him off.

"You will contact no one. You will get no one's permission. You will not leave this place until she is either saved or gone or dead. Those are the rules you will follow."

John started to yell back, but Lorenzo rested a hand on his shoulder. As though to say: _Let's just get through this._

While Erik watched over them all, Raoul drove back to their hotel and retrieved one of their bags from the room. They'd brought another gun, but most of their belongings were harmless. Clothes. Toothbrushes. Papers. Holy books. Little containers of water. Novels. Crosses. Raoul felt like they'd done the right thing. If these men couldn't help, then this situation was hopeless.

When he returned to the apartment, John was untied. He and Lorenzo were sitting on the floor with bottles of water. Erik stood over them. It was quiet. Eerie. Like a wake. "Here ya go," said Raoul, cutting into the silence and dropping the bag. Erik sifted through the contents and then handed it over to them.

Raoul excused himself and stepped into the bathroom. He rubbed his eyes. One time, his father had told him that men should only cry at funerals and the births of children. Raoul vaguely wondered if his dad would have included possessions, too, had he known they were real. Then again, they were getting pretty close to a funeral. He washed his face with his hands.

When he returned, John was slowly flipping through the yellowed pages of a book. Lorenzo's eyes were closed, and he was taking very deep breaths. Erik stood there stoically. It was difficult to tell what the masked man was thinking. If Raoul had to guess, it would be: _This is not going to work._

Erik approached him. They didn't look at each other.

Erik spoke, "If the creature enters me, as I hope it will, I will attempt to complete the final task. There should be a window where I can act. A cocktail that I can inject. If not, you will be the one to do it. Understand? You will defend her if I cannot. You will do everything in your power to make sure she survives. I know that." A pause. "Tell her I love her. That it had to be this way, for her to live. I am happy it is this way." Erik left his side and knelt down beside Christine again.

A chilly thought crept into Raoul's mind. _She'd rather have Erik survive this._

An hour or so later, the four men gathered around her - and the creature.

* * *

><p>A black couch in a familiar living room. At first Christine thought she was awake.<p>

But the apartment had furniture. And a television. The smell of cooking food. This was months ago.

This was the moment she'd realized that had Erik had kidnapped her.

What exactly was _it_ planning on doing to this memory?

A false Erik entered the room. The indifference in his eyes gave him away. This was not the desperate, confused, scared man who had locked her in that apartment and begged for her love.

"You're not Erik," she said, standing.

"No?"

"No."

_It_ still spoke to her in his voice. "The funny thing is, I do not know why you did all this for him in the first place. I might have been a negative influence, but he made his own decisions." The thing showed her flashes of Erik killing people - strangling them, stabbing them. Often with indifference, almost boredom. The visions stung, even though she'd seen glimpses before. The thing continued, "Whom are you suffering for? This man, if he can even be called that? I used to love him like a son, you know? Does not that tell you something?"

"You didn't love him. You used him," she murmured.

"He was one of my favorite children, in a sense. He was much smarter, although less obedient, than Alexander. He understood what made people tick. He could control himself. Until you."

"He was ready to suffer for the rest of his life. Forty years of torture. For me. For the world." She smiled to herself, already feeling victorious. "And there's nothing you can say or show me that'll change that. It was stupid to bring me here. I'm not afraid of him. I'll never regret this decision."

Livid, the false Erik jumped forward and pinned her to the wall. His hands wrapped around her neck. He pressed his body against hers, inches from her face. The creature knew that it was losing. "Let go of me!" it screamed at her. Its breath smelled like death. "Let go of me!"

She struggled and fought, saying over and over, "You're not him. You're not him. You're not him."

For some reason, he released her. Christine pressed herself up against the plaster, breathing heavily. "What—"

The false Erik started to laugh. The imaginary world flickered like a broken light. He laughed and laughed.

"I'm not afraid of him!" she exclaimed, stepping forward. "There's nothing here that I'm afraid of! I'm happy I saved him! I don't regret it!" She tried to grab the thing, tried to tackle it. Erik's form disappeared as the laughter continued, echoing all around her.

She spread out her arms. "What are you doing?" She turned around and around in the middle of the imaginary living room. "What now?"

Something had gone wrong. The fabric of her mind was starting to unravel. Her thoughts were less clear.

The thing was very, very happy. She was suddenly terrified.

The horror was not in her mind; the horror was in the real world.

Voices above. Not just Erik's and Raoul's. Other men, vaguely familiar.

They were trying to-

_No!_

_No! No! No!_


	38. Chapter 38

A big thanks to all who reviewed! I saw some new readers, too, which is always great.

We're getting closer to the end. Just a technical note. I used the actual Rite of Exorcism as inspiration for this chapter. The rite was updated within the last twenty years, though, which means there could be some copyright issues, as strange as that may sound. In any case, I tried to avoid using the actual text. But the basic framework is kind of there.

**Enjoy! Read and Review! **

Raoul remembered one year ago, the previous summer.

He and Christine had sat on a grassy hill at one of the local parks and watched fireworks. They had cuddled on a blanket, cold sodas in hand, and stared up at the exploding night sky. Oohs and Aahs. A week or so later, they had headed to the mountains and stayed at a cabin that Raoul's father owned. The evenings were the best, the buzz of cicadas and the smell of hotdogs roasting. And while they hadn't been dating long enough to make it permanent, Raoul remembered thinking: _This might be the one. _

At the cabin, they'd sat outside on lawn chairs and watched the orange sunset. She'd said, "I wish we could stay up here forever. And not go back to school. I'm kind of nervous about this next semester. I don't even know what I want to do."

"Your classes are going to be fine," he'd reassured her. "You'll figure out your major. Just give it some time."

She'd smiled at him, but there was a slight sorrow in her eyes. Maybe she was just nervous about school. Yet as Raoul stared at her unconscious, frail body - surrounded by three strange men - he wondered if Christine had felt this nightmare approaching even back then. Was this meant to happen?

Raoul wished he'd had some power of foresight. He would have kept her in the mountains forever, foregoing an MBA and everything that he was 'supposed' to accomplish. They could have been like those weird people who gave up modern life and disappeared into the wilderness, living off the land. It was a nice fantasy, more realistic than what was actually happening in front of him.

It was nearly five in the morning by the time they were ready to begin.

John and Lorenzo each made the sign of the cross over their chests. Taking a small white bottle, John sprinkled holy water over her torso. She didn't react. He quickly scattered it over the rest of them, including Erik, who looked as out of place here as Raoul felt. His yellow eyes were distant and detached. Barring a miracle, there was really no happy ending for him. Raoul felt no satisfaction from this thought.

John knelt to the floor and cleared his voice. Holding his leather-bound book, he read through a long series of lines, pleading with God for mercy and for strength. Lorenzo would repeat the words or give a similar response. Their chanting and prayers continued for a long while. Christine didn't move during any of this. Raoul felt his heart hammering in his chest. Fear that it would work. Fear that it wouldn't.

Finally, John commanded the creature, the unclean spirit, to leave her body. Raoul tensed as he waited for her, or the thing inside of her, to react. For anything at all. Her head jerked to the side one time. Raoul held his breath. Still nothing.

John again ordered the creature out of her, placing his large hands on the sides of her head. Erik flinched, preparing to protect her. Yet the older man only said a prayer for her to be well. He sprinkled her with holy water again and said another plea. Erik slowly retreated, his narrow shoulders slumping.

Finally, Lorenzo and John stopped speaking and stepped away from her.

"Is that it?" Raoul weakly asked. She was still completely out of it.

"This can take time," said John. "I don't know what's going to happen. But you need to have patience."

At least their efforts seemed genuine. After actually seeing her, John's expression had softened, and Raoul had trusted him a little more. As they stepped out of the room, speaking in low voices, Raoul noticed Erik watching her. "She is agitated," Erik murmured to himself.

"How can you tell?" Raoul asked.

"The tension in her face. She is fighting all of us."

"What does that mean?" Erik didn't answer; his bony hand tenderly brushed over her cheek. "Do you think we should keep going?"

"She wants us to stop. And yet she will die if we do. What is your answer, Chagny? Should we stop?" Erik finally looked up.

Raoul coughed out a brokenhearted laugh. "I don't know."

They didn't stop. After thirty minutes or so of rest, John and Lorenzo returned and took turns reading selections from the Gospel. Most of the passages were in reference to demons and the casting out of them from the afflicted. With more force, John again commanded the creature out of her. His voice grew louder, angrier. He ordered it back to the fire, referring to the creature as a dragon and a serpent and a monster. He pled with God to save her. Erik was leaning over her with a livid glint in his eyes—anger at John because this wasn't working…anger at the entire spectacle because he saw it as ridiculous. Raoul felt this frustration, this hopelessness.

"Depart!" John exclaimed. "Be gone!" His wrinkled hands trembled. His eyes were a little wild, and his voice was hoarse. Again, Christine flinched. A soft moan finally escaped her lips. John again exclaimed, "I command you to leave her! God commands you to leave her!"

Finally, Erik roared, "Get out of her!"

John looked at him, startled. "That is not approp-"

Christine opened her blue eyes. They all froze. She blinked at them.

She panicked.

"Stop!" she half-croaked, her voice dry and unused. "No, stop! What are you doing? Stop! Please stop!" She writhed and twisted in her tight bindings. "Stop!"

"There we go," John whispered. He quickly continued to read, to pray over her and cast the creature out of her. "God commands you to leave her!" Lorenzo stared forward with his jaw set, one hand clutching a wooden cross.

She cried out, "Stop! Stop! Stop!"

"You must release it," Erik softly pled, kneeling and placing a hand to her cheek. "We are driving this disgusting monster out of you, do you understand? You must let it go, Christine! Release it!"

"No," she moaned. Tears dripped down her cheeks. "It'll go to someone else!"

"It does not matter who it goes to. You will live! You will live, Christine! That is what matters!"

"No!" she cried, her face crumbling. "You're going to-No! _No!_" She sensed what was going to happen. She knew it was going to be Erik.

"Christine," Raoul began. And maybe he wanted to tell her that, if she preferred, the creature could go inside him instead. But it was hard to force those words out. And she interrupted him, anyway.

"I can kill it! I can kill it! No! No!" She threw her head back and released an earth-shattering scream. She sounded like she was being tortured. Maybe she was.

John continued to speak over her. "I cast you out, evil one….."

"My God," Raoul whispered. Christine choked, sputtering and squirming. She was turning blue, about to suffocate on her own panic. "Stop!" Raoul turned to John. "Stop for a second! She can't breathe."

"No!" Christine whimpered, coughing. "Please stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" Her words were nearly gasps now. Her pale face was soaked with saliva and sweat.

Erik suddenly had a clear syringe in his hand, his arm frozen in the air. He gripped her shoulder. "Christine, you must be calm. You must be. Or I will have to-"

"No! No! No!" Her head whipped back and forth.

"Well, do it," said John, slightly out of breath. "Calm her down, so that we can get this thing out of her!"

"Christine," Erik whispered. "I must, if you will not be calm. Do you understand me? I will not let you die. I cannot watch you die. You cannot ask that of me!"

"Then don't-" Her voice broke down into coughs and gasps. Again, she twisted and squirmed, trying to escape them.

With misery in his eyes, Erik pulled back the sleeve of her t-shirt and injected the sedative into her upper arm. "I am so sorry," he whispered. "I am so…I am..."

"No," she whimpered. She cringed as the needle pierced her skin. "No. Why won't anyone listen to m-m-me." She slumped back onto the blanket. "Please listen," she whispered. "Why won't you listen?"

"I love you. That is why," Erik murmured, stepping back as his arm fell to his side. "That is why."

And while Erik was the one who held the sedative—Raoul knew they had all made this decision. They had all made the decision to ignore her. They knew what was best for her, after all.

Didn't they?

Her eyes closed. Her body stilled. Her head fell to the side, and she released a soft and defeated sigh.

Raoul was shaking.

"I am going to continue," said John, taking a deep breath.

Lorenzo muttered, "It'd be better if she were willing. This isn't exactly-"

John harshly replied, "It's too late for that now. We either do this, or she's not going to make it. Look at her." Lorenzo nodded. There was a noticeable change in her features as the sedative took full effect. It was difficult to describe. Greyer. Colder. The thing was returning.

"Prepare yourself, Erik," murmured Lorenzo without looking at him. "Will the creature into you, if that is what you really want. Will it into yourself."

Erik glanced at Raoul and gave him a subtle nod. Raoul's stomach clenched as he followed the unspoken order. Hours before the exorcism had begun, Erik had told him where the gun was - tucked away in an innocent looking black leather bag at the left corner of the room. The safety was on, but it was loaded. Erik had said, "I will make every attempt to do it myself, to not endanger her. But if I command you to end it, then you must go forward. Aim for the chest first. Twice, if you must. Then, if you have a clear shot, the head."

Raoul had felt sick. Still, he managed to ask, "What if the creature goes into one of them instead?"

"I will deal with that." He didn't elaborate.

Raoul had forced himself to say, "Well, if the thing goes into me, I guess it's the same. End it, right?"

"It will be me." That was the icy end of the conversation.

Now, as John leaned over her body and read prayer after prayer, Raoul slowly went forward and picked up that terrible bag. He returned to her side. Erik knelt near her head and inaudibly murmured something into her ear. Raoul reached inside and felt the cold metal of the gun. John was too focused to notice. Lorenzo glanced at him but said nothing.

"It is mine!" Erik rasped, his head touching hers. "It was always mine, you see? I was born to have the monster in me! I deserve it; you do not. I deserve it. I am practically no different than it. Give it back to me. Come back to me now!"

Her head rocked back and forth. Her skin looked like stone. John screamed into her face, "I call you out of her, creature! Begone, Devil!"

"Please," Raoul muttered beneath his breath. "Please. Please get out of her."

"Come to me!" Erik yelled.

Then Lorenzo, with alarm in his voice, said, "It's coming—_No!_"

The rip of ropes being torn cut through the air. Bindings being broken.

An invisible force slammed against his chest. Raoul flew backward. He hit the wall. His back took most of the impact, and he wasn't knocked out. Still, he couldn't breathe for several seconds, couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened. He slumped to the floor, his legs collapsing out from underneath him.

Gasping, Raoul forced himself to sit up. To his right, Lorenzo was lying on his stomach with his arms stretched out in front of him. He groaned and slowly raised his head, coughing. Alive at least.

Where was Erik?

Erik was to his left, in a crouching position and clutching his forehead with one hand. Was he possessed?

Before Raoul could make any sort of decision, Erik looked up. He jumped to his feet. And released this horrible, strangled cry. Because—

Where the hell was John?

Where was Christine? Where was-?

Erik dashed toward the door of the room. Raoul pushed himself up. And tried to understand what had just-

Raoul's heart stopped. Evil black eyes stared at him from the other room. Along with John's terrified, blood-drained face. John gaped and weakly struggled to break the hold that Christine, or rather the creature, had around his neck. Still firmly in control of Christine's body, the thing dragged him backward on his knees, using John as a shield and a hostage.

In sedating Christine, they had temporarily allowed the creature to overpower her completely. For _it _could not be sedated. _Holy shit._

Lorenzo finally climbed to his feet. "No!" he screamed, his hands helplessly reaching out. "Let him go! Release him, you monster!"

_It_ grinned at them as John coughed and struggled in her unnaturally strong grip. Christine's laughter rang into the air, bitter and abnormal. She-_It_ had John back against the entrance to the apartment.

Erik advanced toward them in several strides and was inches away from grabbing her. To Raoul's horror, the creature threw Erik backward. _It _opened the door, hesitating in the entryway, still holding John by the neck. Erik looked ready to dive forward again, an enraged glint in his yellow eyes.

"Stop!" Lorenzo screamed at Erik. "You're going to get him killed!"

Erik locked eyes with the thing. And said, very quietly, "He is already dead."

The thing grabbed John's head between her hands and twisted it sharply to the side. The sickening crack of a neck breaking vibrated in the air. John's head limply fell back, his eyes still open in a permanent stare of horror.

Raoul gritted his teeth and cringed. He almost vomited right there on the carpet. Lorenzo moaned and slumped against the wall, all color draining from his face.

Erik just…stared. Only the slight unfurling of his hands and the collapse of his posture gave away what he was feeling.

"Did you really think I would choose to enter any of you?" _it_ asked. "Do you think I am completely stupid? She is the one person here whom none of you will harm. Erik, your race to be the martyr is utterly charming. But I would never go into you again, you ridiculous freak! Ever! No, I rather like existing. Let this be a lesson to all of you!"

The thing hurled the body of John at them. It landed on the carpet with a sickening thud. The creature opened the door and instantly disappeared. On his feet again, Erik jumped over the corpse and raced after her without a word. The door slammed shut behind him.

Trembling, Lorenzo slowly walked over to John's body and made the cross over his chest. "God save us all," he murmured. With a shuddery breath, he disappeared into the other room for several seconds. He emerged, pushed past Raoul, and ran out the door. With no time to think about anything, to make any decisions, Raoul followed closely behind.

A thud. A shout of anger. The echoes of footsteps down the dimly lit stairwell.

Raoul panted as he made his way to the bottom, turning corner after corner, always afraid of what he might see on the other side. He made it just in time to watch Lorenzo run out the glass doors of the complex. It was very early in the morning, a hint of light visible against the dark horizon. Clouds covered half the sky. The smell of summer rain hung in the air.

Raoul stopped running, his stomach cramping. At first, he could only see Lorenzo running back and forth across the sidewalk. Then Erik reappeared, obviously unsuccessful in finding her. The streetlights glinted off his black mask. Lorenzo pressed a hand to his forehead.

Raoul asked the obvious question as they took a left onto the next street, "Where did she…did it go?"

"We'll have to split up," Lorenzo muttered.

"How are any of us going to handle _that_ by ourselves?" Raoul replied.

"I could call some people," said Lorenzo. "But it'd be probably be too late…."

With his back turned toward them, Erik lowered his mask to beneath his eyes, as though that would give him better vision. His head slowly turned back and forth as he eyed the landscape. People began to step out of their homes, on their way to work and school. None were aware that a monster lingered among them.

Erik replaced his mask. His head turned to the side. The yellowed eyes closed. The masked man was still, his shoulders rising and falling.

"What—" Raoul started to ask.

"Hush!" Erik snapped, his hand touching his temple.

"We need to go in different—" Lorenzo began.

"Will you be quiet?!" Erik hissed. "Both of you be quiet!"

Seconds ticked by. The only sound was their heavy breathing and the rumble of a passing car.

Erik's eyes opened, and he ran off in a very distinct direction.

"What's he doing now?" miserably asked Lorenzo. "Has he lost his mind?"

Raoul swallowed. "I think he can hear her."

"Hear what? Her voice? Her footsteps?"

But Raoul raced after Erik. Lorenzo followed.

* * *

><p><em>His<em> mind had gone numb.

Perhaps that was why he could finally hear.

Because he could not let himself think about what had just transpired. Not about their utter failure to save her. Not about how he had just watched as Christine's lovely hands were used to severe someone's spinal cord, although that image would be forever branded into his memory. A corruption beyond words.

He could only act, put one foot in front of the other, one motion after the next.

And then, for a moment, he could do nothing. The creature had used its power to trip him as he raced down the stairs; he'd been too late to see _it_ leave the complex. Sunrise was approaching, and he stared at the nearly empty streets. Helpless. He had destroyed her.

And then he'd heard it. Maybe he'd sensed it before that moment, but now there was no mistaking what she'd described so long ago. Head chimes.

Somehow, she had given him a piece of her gift, her curse. He could hear them clearly. He knew which direction the creature was heading. And he knew that_ it_ was quickly weakening.

As the rising sun cast long shadows, he ran through alleys and streets. Daylight brushed against his pale, cold body until a grey cloud obscured it. Voices of people—

"—shouldn't be more than a hundred—"

"Did you remember to buy milk? We're almost—"

"Took the cat to the vet this morning-"

"I can't find my son! I just had him. He was right beside me!"

"I'm sure he's around here somewhere. Maybe he went into one of the stores."

"They're all closed! He was right here! I know he was!"

The last exchange, between a newspaper stand man and a younger woman, made him briefly glance up. Only briefly.

He heard a few gasps as he passed a café where commuters stopped for their morning cups of coffee. With his mask, he likely looked like he had just robbed a bank. He tried to stay toward the side, in the shadows, and finally ducked behind a building. The noises of rush hour were making it more difficult to hear.

He closed his eyes and listened. The chimes tinkled softly in the center of his mind, guiding him. He stepped over cigarette butts and broken bottles. Some drug paraphernalia. The air was warm and damp, making his mask stick to his face. A car horn honked in the distance. A siren.

And then he finally heard her voice, whispering eerily, "Let me into you. Just relax your little mind for me and let me into you, child. It will not hurt. Not a bit. It'll just be like you have a friend with you all the time. Don't you want a friend? I so want to be your friend."

"I don't understand!" a child exclaimed. "I want to go back now. You said we were going somewhere fun, but we're not. I want to go back to my mom!"

_He_ turned the final corner, into an alleyway that was completely concealed. Even _he_, with his skeletal build, had to squeeze between the brick walls and a dumpster to arrive there. The thing knelt in front of the standing boy, her hands at his waist, holding him in place. They were eye level. The child, six or seven, had tears streaming down his cheeks. Her breathing was heavy, and the black eyes were exhausted. The thing was unquestionably languishing. Which could only mean one of two things.

Either her body was nearly dead. Or Christine was again fighting back.

"Please!" the child cried. "You're a stranger. I wasn't supposed to go with you."

"No, I am your friend," the thing replied, ruffling his blond hair. "I just want to be with you. Just for a little while. Let me in. Let me in now. Then you can go back to your mother. Yes?"

Perhaps the creature had weakened so quickly that _it_ knew there was no time to find a perfect victim, a mental patient or an insane criminal. So the thing had grabbed a child as a last resort. A little boy would perhaps be weak-minded. Vulnerable to possession. And, no matter how bizarre or terrible his behavior, a child was safe from most repercussions.

_He _finally made himself known, stepping out from behind the brick wall. The thing glanced up and growled. _It_ grabbed the child and positioned him in front of her body, a shield, one hand wrapped around the boy's neck. Just as the creature had done with John. "How did you find me?!" _it_ viciously rasped. Her voice was distorted beyond all recognition. "That does not matter! I do not have time for you! Come any closer, and I will kill him. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"Honestly, I do not have much of a conscious left," he replied. "I do not have much of anything left. You have taken everything." Still, he didn't take a step forward. His crumbling mind slowly assessed the situation. What did he want to come from this? What choice could be made here? He felt far away.

_It_ held tightly to the child, continuing to make pleas and commands. "Let me into you right now. Open your mind to me. Open it!"

"I don't know how!" the child shouted through his tears. "I don't want to! I want to go home!"

The black eyes looked back up at _him._ "Well, Erik? Maybe you can be of use. Shouldn't you be encouraging the child? Isn't this what you wanted? Me to find another body? Tell the boy to let me in. Tell her to let go of me. And then we can all be joyful."

_He_ opened his mouth. Because a part of him wanted this to happen - to save her at any cost and damn everyone else! Yet he still said nothing. Perhaps the idea of sacrificing a child did scrape against some distant part of his humanity. Maybe he knew all too well what it was like to be a little boy with a brain-dwelling monster - unable to understand what this was or why it was happening to him…or what he had done to deserve such a fate.

Or maybe he was finally done fighting her. Maybe he was simply _done._

"Tell her to release me!" _it_ screamed at him.

"I am no longer your slave," _he_ replied. "Do not make demands of me."

With a snarl, the creature turned back to the child. "Let me in, you little brat!" The little boy just sobbed and begged to leave. "Leave me alone, you stupid girl! Let me go! Let me in." _It_ simultaneously fought with Christine and pled with the child. Its voice grew increasingly more desperate. It twitched as though in pain. "Let go of me! I swear you will be sorry, girl! Let go of me!" _it_ screamed at her. "Let go!" Then back to the child. "Let me in!"

"Over here!" Lorenzo exclaimed from behind them. He and Chagny appeared and came to a screeching halt at the corner of the alleyway.

"Oh my God," said Chagny. "She has a…."

"All of you!" _it_ shrieked. "Tell her to let go! I will kill her! I will! Release me from her horrid grasp!"

Yet none of them said anything. None of them obeyed. One look at the child's tear-stained, terrified face—and that was it.

With a scream of rage, the creature shook the little boy. _"Let me in!" _For a moment, the child quieted and appeared confused, his eyes darkening and a grimace forming on his mouth. "Yes," the thing whispered. "Good boy. Let me in. Good little boy. Yes. Relax your mind. Yes." And then-"Let go of me, you stupid girl!"

Her eyes closed for only a second as the creature attempted to release Christine's mental grip. And _he_ used that second to dive forward and grab the child by the arm. He jerked him away from her weakened fingers. "No!" _it_ screamed, reaching outwards. Her body collapsed to the asphalt, a hoarse moan escaping her lips.

"Take the child!" _he_ ordered. Chagny obeyed, grabbing the little boy's hand and pulling him away from danger.

"I hate you!" _it _snarled at him from the ground. He felt a light force pushing him back, no stronger than a spring breeze. "I hate you! You are a freak! You are a nothing! You are disgusting! Hideous! The greatest failure! I hate you!" It continued to hurl insults, each one weaker than the last.

That was all it could do now, and the words had no effect on him. The creature had no power over him now. _He_ knelt to try and coax her back out, all his attention focused upon what remained of his Christine. Her lids closed, and the black eyes disappeared. He touched her cheek. "Come back to—"

"No!" Chagny shouted from the corner. "Leave her alone!" Chagny released the hand of the child and sprinted forward. The little boy immediately slipped through the crack and ran away.

It took him only a second to understand.

Lorenzo now held a gun in his right hand. Still at a distance, he started to aim it toward her head. "We have to destroy it!" he exclaimed, his face damp with perspiration and his jaw clenched. "We can't let it go into anyone else! Especially not you! There's no other way! I'm sorry, but there's no other way!"

_He _quickly scooped her limp body up, shielding her with his back, and growled, "If you harm a hair on her head, I will boil you alive!"

"You can't kill her!" Chagny exclaimed, trying to tackle Lorenzo and grab the gun. "It wasn't her fault. It's not her! That thing is not her!"

"I understand that!" Lorenzo cried, pushing Chagny back with his free hand. "I do! But there's no other way to destroy it! John was right. It's a terrible situation, but we don't have a choice! It murdered John! It nearly killed a child!"

"That child is only alive because of her!" _he_ roared. "I will kill you if you touch her! I will you kill you!"

"This a menace to the entire world!" Lorenzo retorted. "You of all people should know that! It's practically the Antichrist! There's no other way!" Lorenzo knocked Chagny to the ground with his elbow and held up the gun. "There's no other way to be rid of it!"

"Get her out of here!"

He was already halfway out of the alley before Chagny finished his sentence. Clutching her in his arms, he ran. He braced himself for a gunshot and a sharp pain in his back. Neither ever came. Perhaps the idiot was too much of a coward to pull the trigger. He raced forward through the alleyways, holding onto her for dear life as dismal grey and brick walls flew by in a blur.

"Erik." Her hoarse voice spoke. In his single-minded need to continue forward, to just run toward nothing, he almost didn't hear her. He looked down, preparing for another fight against the creature. But - blue eyes. "Erik? Where-where are we-"

"Christine," _he_ helplessly whispered, slowing. "I will take you to a—a hospital. Or a—a-" He stuttered through the final terrible options. He'd always considered himself of high intelligence, one of his only positive qualities. He had nothing left to say, though. He had nothing.

Erik, please listen to me." Her voice was weak but firm. "Please. I _can_ kill it. From the inside. I was getting so close. I have to be the last one."

"But-"

"Please listen this time. I'm begging you. Or I am going to-to not be very well. But if you'll listen to me, I think it'll still be okay. Please give me a chance to kill it."

He stopped walking. A raindrop hit him on the hit, cold and firm. As though the heavens were trying to knock some sense into him.

"Fine," he rasped. "Fine. Fine."

Without another word, he continued forward. Her skinny arms wrapped around his neck. The streets were empty now that the rain had started to come down harder. A few people scurried by with umbrellas. They returned to the complex and the black car. He hesitated as he opened the back door.

"You don't need to tie me up," she said, reading his mind. "I can hold it back. If you don't sedate me again…." He gently placed her in the backseat. He climbed into the front and inhaled as he took the key from his pocket, feeling the heavy weight of defeat on his chest. As he started the car, she asked, "Erik? Something very bad happened today, didn't it? I don't remember what, but I have this feeling..."

He didn't answer. She didn't ask again, and he didn't know if he would ever tell her.

He knew exactly where he was going. She remained awake during the drive, her cheek against the seat as she stared out the window. He eventually turned into a dark parking garage near campus and stopped the car. Through the rain, he carried her around several buildings. Through a door that was supposed to be locked. Down a set of concrete stairs. Down they went into darkness.

Dark and cool. And somehow so right.

"Where are we?" she finally asked, her voice curious but unafraid.

"An unused basement. This is where I used to stay," he softly explained. "When I first arrived. When I first met you. This was my temporary home. "

She looked around. "Oh."

"You see that coffin over there?" She glanced at it. "That is where I rested. I could not sleep. I could not die. But I could rest there. It was quite comfortable." A pause. "And, if you die, we are both going in there. Forever."

"Erik—"

"No," he whispered, feeling that clenching in his chest. "You want me listen to you? Fine. Here we are. I will not fight you any longer. We will do exactly as you want."

"Erik, you-"

"No! You never asked!" he exclaimed, sharply staring down at her. "You never asked me what I would want, before you went and did this. I had no say. Otherwise, I would have told you that this is worse than anything else, including forty years of torture. So do not tell me what I should do. That is my decision! You have no say in that. You get no say in that, Christine."

She looked down and was quiet for a moment. She sighed. "You're right," she murmured. "I didn't ask you. I knew you'd never let it happen. And this was our only chance, and I - But I was just going to say that it's going to be okay. It's all going to be okay. You've done what I want now. Thank you. I'll take it from here. It's okay."

He took a seat on the cold ground, still cradling her. Her head rested against his chest and nuzzled up against his chin. Her breath was warm against his neck. "Do you want anything of me?" he softly asked. His anger dwindled.

"I just need to relax again. So that I can go back to sleep and find it. Um. You could help me relax. You could…sing."

"What do you want me to sing?"

The corner of her lip twitched upward. "Something happy?"

He gave a low chuckle. "Oh, darling. I have never sung something _happy_, and I do not have it in me now."

"Then whatever you want."

His hand stroked her hair, and he sang. Her eyes closed. Every so often, he touched her pulse. And waited.

* * *

><p>Without the creature inside him, Erik's voice was even more beautiful. Unrestrained and smoother. Freer. Eventually, he would understand that her choice had been the right one. It was really the only one. If she hadn't made it, he wouldn't be with her right now.<p>

She faded in his arms.

It felt like she slept for a very long time. With no dreams or memories. Just darkness and nothingness. An absence of herself.

Her eyes opened. Confused, she squinted under bright lights. She was lying in a small bed with a drab grey comforter draped over body. Surrounded by off-white walls and a few cheap pieces of furniture, a nightstand and a desk.

Her stomach turned. Flashes of the past.

"_We don't know what's wrong with her. We'll start her on some medication, see how she reacts."_

"_I don't want to stay here, Dad. I don't want to come back." _

"_They'll help you get better, sweetheart. It's only temporary. I promise."_

She moved the blanket and looked down. She wore a flimsy green nightshirt. A white paper bracelet was wrapped around her wrist. "No," she whispered. "Please no."

Erik had betrayed her! He'd refused to listen to her again! He'd taken her to an institution while she slept, hoping the creature would find a new victim there! How could he?! How dare he!

She clutched her head and cried.


	39. Chapter 39

So here is the end of the main climax. I hope you have enjoyed the journey! We'll have a few more chapters to tie things up, probably still ending at Chapter 42 or 43.

Thanks as always for your support!

**Read and Review!**

The tiled floor was ice cold beneath her bare feet. A single window was hidden by a translucent white curtain that had a tear on the left side. Christine pulled it back and looked out. She was probably on the second floor. The sky was grey. The building was surrounded by a tall concrete wall. Patches of dirt and ugly weeds covered the ground on her side. Above the wall, she could see the highway.

What a lovely view. She cried out in frustration. How could he?! How could Erik betray her with such indifference?

She closed her eyes and listened for the thing. She heard nothing. Had_ it_ already claimed someone else? If so, where was Erik? Why hadn't he retrieved her? She didn't know if she could ever forgive him for this. Frustration welled up inside her chest. She clutched the sides of her head and groaned.

The metal doorknob turned. Christine whirled around, almost expecting Erik to step into her room. She opened her mouth to scream at him. A middle-aged woman with chin-length brown hair entered. She was on the slender side and several inches taller than Christine. She wore blue scrubs with a long-sleeved black turtleneck beneath her shirt, dressed more for winter than summer. Maybe this place was always freezing.

"Oh. You're up. Good. How are you today, Christine?" the woman asked in a sweet voice, smiling.

"I can't be here!" Christine exclaimed, taking a step forward. "This is a mistake."

The woman probably heard this from half the patients. She stayed very calm. Only her green eyes had that slight hint of: _Here we go again._ "It's okay, Christine. Everything is going to be okay. It always is."

Why did this woman have such familiarity with her? They had never met. "It's not okay," Christine insisted. "I need to go! Everything is already so messed up! I have to go and figure out what's happened. Did you see Erik bring me here?"

"We've talked about this. You've never met him. But he makes lovely music for you to listen to, and that's wonderful, right?" Christine gaped, speechless. "Now it's almost breakfast time. Don't you want to see all your friends?"

"I can't…." She paused. The room tilted, and she grabbed onto the bed for support. "My-my friends?"

"Yeah. Ellen and Lisa and Katie. You can have breakfast with them."

"Oh—Oh….Oh!" Christine started to laugh.

The woman stared at her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. It's just that this isn't real. It's not real! Thank God! I haven't been here long enough to make friends. I don't know anyone here."

"You have lots of friends. People need friends. Don't push them away."

"This isn't real!" she cried with delight, turning around with her arms spread out. "This is another head place! Another un-reality!"

Christine waited for the woman to suddenly morph into the shadowy thing. Instead, she only shook her head and said, "Do you need me to get anyone? Would you like me to set up an appointment with your psychiatrist?"

"Oh, come on," she said, throwing up her hands. "It was your best one. You had me there. Very good. But it's over."

"I'm going to go ahead and make you an appointment," the woman replied. "I think that's a good idea. You can go to breakfast when you're dressed." The woman smiled one last time and left the room.

Christine glared after her. "What's the point of this?!" she yelled.

There were no mirrors in the room, but she caught sight of herself in the window. Her hair was trimmed to just beneath her ears. Her skin was pale, and she was too thin. She looked lost in the overly large nightshirt. She looked like she belonged here.

"I know this isn't real!" No response. "Ugh!" Well, she'd have to explore this false reality a little bit. Sooner or later, the thing had to reveal itself. _It _was dying. It couldn't keep her here forever! She found a pair of grey sweatpants lying on the floor and slid them on beneath the nightshirt. Even if this wasn't real, she still sought modesty.

This place was creepy.

Her stomach turning, she opened the door. An empty hallway greeted her, with tiles and walls the same color as in her room. Somehow, she knew which way to go. Other patients also emerged. They were of various ages. Most wore scrubs, sweats, or other loose-fitting clothing. Some talked to each other. Some only stared at the floor, their posture drooped as they walked slowly forward, their feet dragging.

"Come on!" Christine shouted. Only a couple of patients glanced at her.

One man echoed her, "Come on! Come on! Come on!"

Christine played along for a little while longer. She stood in the cafeteria line and selected a banana and a carton of milk. All the hot food, the pile of scrambled eggs and the lumpy biscuits and gravy, made her want to vomit.

She had no idea if the girls she sat with were her supposed friends. The seat at the round table was the only one open in the cafeteria. One younger girl with straight, raven black hair talked on and on about random things. "My dad said he'll take me horse riding again when I leave. Do you like horses? I saw a movie about a horse last year. It was really sad. The horse died at the end. My grandmother died. We're going to the—" One of them didn't talk at all, just staring into her bowl of cereal, spinning it around and around with her spoon. One had cuts on her wrist. One kept staring at Christine with this blank yet curious gaze.

Christine frowned at her two items, increasingly terrified.

"Aren't you going to eat?" She jumped. An older, plump woman stood behind her with a brown clipboard in hand.

"I'm not hungry," Christine replied. The woman shook her head and jotted something down.

The dark-haired girl continued to talk, "We have five dogs. We used to have six, but one of them died. His name was Cocoa because he was brown. I really like cocoa. My dad makes the best ever. With marshmallows and whipped cream. We're going to go horseback riding—"

"That's it!" Christine exclaimed, jumping up. "Enough! Where are you?! Come on. You can't do this forever!" Maybe she'd provoke _it_ a little more. She hopped up from the table and dashed toward the double doors. She ran into the hallway. Any second now, this was all going to disappear. Any second now.

Before she could make it to the door marked with a red exit sign, someone grabbed her by the shoulder. A thirty-something-year-old man in green scrubs with a short, brown beard. A tech. "Woah there," he said. "Let's get you back to your room, okay? It's cold outside. Brrr! Let's go back to your room."

"Let me go!" She pulled against his grip, but he was far too strong.

"Christine. We're going to your room now."

"Why don't you turn into the thing? I know you're in there somewhere! Come out! You stupid, evil thing! Let's end this!"

The man spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Hey. I need some help in the south hallway."

"Fine! I'll go. I'll go!" Firmly gripping her by the shoulder, the man led her back to the room. She made one last attempt to get away, but another man, a bigger one, appeared. It was no used fighting both of them. She couldn't conjure extra physical strength in this reality.

She flinched away and shut the door. She hit the walls with both her fists. "This is great! Really. Now come out!"

No response. And she was actually starting to wonder. All the other false realities had obvious anomalies. None of them felt real. But this place—it did.

Christine curled up in a ball on the bed. Maybe if she fell asleep, this would all go away. Maybe she'd wake up in Erik's arms. Just for a moment. Just to prove to herself that this wasn't real. The brown-haired woman entered before she closed her eyes. "Everything okay?" she asked. "I heard you had some trouble. Do you need to tell me something?"

Christine didn't look at her. "How long have I been here?" she asked, playing along.

"Oh, that doesn't matter. You're doing so well."

"How long? Tell me how long."

The woman sighed. "About ten years now. Like I said, you're doing so well. Time doesn't matter. Improvement does."

"I'm not supposed to be here. That wasn't my life. I'm not here. I just have to find a way out."

"You'll have an appointment at three today with Dr. Hendryx," she replied. "You can talk about all this with him. Maybe it's time to adjust your medication. And maybe it would be helpful to listen to your music this morning. That always makes you feel calm, doesn't it? You can skip the community group today and rest." She smiled. "Would your music make you feel better?"

"My music?" Christine whispered.

"I'll go ahead and get that for you." As Christine stared dumbly after her, the woman disappeared for a moment. She returned with a rounded CD player that had small speakers and placed it on the table at the front of the room. She took a silver CD from a clear case and fiddled with the device. "You're allowed to listen to it once. Okay? Then I'll lock it back up."

Apparently, technology didn't progress as fast in this place. There was rustling and a click. The most beautiful piano music that Christine ever heard began to softly play. The woman adjusted the volume then glanced at Christine's face. She nodded in approval. "There you go. I knew that'd make you feel calmer. No more running away at breakfast, okay?" Christine ignored her and listened.

Quick and light. Staccato. Softer. Growing to the crescendo. Louder. A pause. Then a smooth, legato melody. It was utterly lovely. It was soothing. It was eerie.

After listening to the first song, Christine slowly stood as the next one began. It started as a soft, repetitive melody. Growing louder. Then softer. She felt dizzy. The plastic case sat on the dresser. On the inside was a black insert with white writing. She walked toward it. With shaking hands, she picked it up and read the title of the CD.

_Vivace—A Collection of Interpretations and Original Work by America's Most Celebrated Pianist, Erik Dienstbach!_

Christine dropped the case. It hit the floor with a clatter and split into two jagged pieces. The insert popped out.

"What the hell is this?" she whispered. Then louder, "What are you doing?! What is this?!"

She reached down and picked up the insert. She turned it around. On the back-

_Erik lives in New York with his wife, a famed Spanish operatic soprano. They have two sons who are also heavily involved in music and theatre. When not composing and playing, Erik enjoys solo voyages on his sailboat and researching the anthropological origins of the world's music…._

There was a black and white photograph, and he was-

"What is this? _What is this?!_" She pinched herself on the wrist. She slapped herself hard on the arm. Then on the cheek. "Let me out!" She raced over to the nearest wall and slammed her ahead against it. Once. Twice. Her skull pounded with pain. She had to get back to Erik, deep below the earth. Simply for a moment of sanity. "I want out!" Again, she smashed her head against the frigid wall.

The door to her room flew open. "Oh my God!" A team of employees ran in and grabbed her by the arms and legs. They forced her to the tiles and held her down.

She screamed. "Let me out!"

As she struggled and screeched, held against her will and forcefully sedated, there was a whisper in her mind. She might have been happy to hear _it _if the words weren't so chilling. _"You should be very careful, when you so eagerly agree to break a bargain."_

A needle pricked her arm. She stopped struggling and listened, needing to understand.

The thing continued, _"What if when you broke the bargain on Erik's life, you broke it from the moment of his birth? What if I have been with you forever? And he has always been free?"_

"What? N-no. That can't be." The ceiling spun above her. Her arms were strapped down against her body. Unfamiliar faces stared at her, mocking her. Prodding hands grabbed at her.

"_They noticed you talking to me when you were a very small child. We talked everyday like best friends. I was your only friend. All the other children thought you were a freak. Finally, your father could not handle your insanity any longer. So he put you here. He abandoned you here. But you've made new friends, yes?"_ A hand slid up her thigh. She screeched. _"You fit in here. And you will be here for the rest of your life."_

"No! You can't do that! You can't change time and reality! You can't. I know you can't!" And yet—_what if?_

"_How do you know what I can and cannot do? I have been around for centuries. I can do anything! I am practically God! And I am all yours now. And, Erik, he's far away. He doesn't know what you've done, that you even exist. And he does not care!"_

"No! You're lying! That's not real!" The world became hazier. She could no longer feel most of her body. Spinning around and around on that bed, immobilized. Hands all over her.

"_You broke the bargain!" it_ taunted. _"Now you're mine forever."_

She screamed.

"_Until I am done with you. But you will be an old woman by then. And you will actually miss me! You will still talk to me when I am gone. Then you will be truly mad."_

She silently cried, tears streaming down her paralyzed faced. She could no longer fight or move. Just breathe in and out, trying to find some answer to this nightmare puzzle. This couldn't really be the end. This couldn't be.

It continued to mock her. _"Do you like your new home? Do you think Erik has had even a single dream of you? I doubt it. I think you are utterly forgotten by the rest of the world. You have no power here. You are a number in the daily patient count. A statistic. Someone's tedious job. A waste of taxpayer money. And a nightly release for a few frustrated male employees. You are nothing!"_

"No," she murmured, staring at the ceiling. There was a brown stain on it, a leak from long ago. "There has to be something. This can't be real. This is - _Erik."_

"_He is gone! His life has been perfect! And he has no need for a whining, crying mental patient. You have no one!"_

"Erik. No. Erik. No! This isn't real!" She shouted it with more certainty. "This isn't real!"

"_It is! This is your new home! This is your new life!"_

"No, it's not. It's not. Because…because his name wouldn't be Erik." She spoke quickly, trying to force the thought out. "Irene named him that because Reverend Mansart came to the house. To help them. Irene named him after the Reverend. But if everything were normal...if his birth had been normal…Maddy would have named him something else. She would have kept him and named him something else. This isn't real!" She wept with relief. "It's not real."

"_A coincidence!"_ it snapped.

"I don't believe in those anymore," Christine whispered. "This isn't real. I'm not here. I'm not here." She repeated that over and over, out of breath and exhausted. Finally, the world around her began to fade to black. She felt as though she were sinking through the mattress, falling into a pit.

When she opened her eyes, she was sitting in a dark, small place. A cell. A white, padded cell. Only a tiny bit of light crept through a window high above her, making small triangles on the floor. At least her arms and legs were free. She drew her knees up against her chest and waited. "Now what?"

The Shadow Creature appeared, materializing out of nothing. Christine leaned back. But _it_ didn't attack. The thing only hovered right beside her._ It_ sighed, weakened and tired. "For a human, you are intelligent," _it_ said, softly. "I will give you that. Very, very good. But, of course, I knew that I couldn't keep you there forever. And I accomplished the foremost goal."

"No, you didn't," she protested. "I figured out it wasn't real! You didn't do anything!"

"It is not real - _yet."_

"What?" she angrily asked. "No. You're just playing mind games with me. You're trying to mess me up!"

"I know what you fear. You fear powerlessness. No one listening. No control over your life. The world I just showed you - you fear that more than death. You tried to kill yourself to escape it."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself; I was trying to wake up. And anyone would be afraid of that," she replied, glancing down. "Anyone would be afraid of not having any control over their own life."

"Do you know what happens when I die?" the thing inquired, its tone still forlorn. "I literally explode in your mind. I most certainly will not go out with a whimper. And I will take as much of you with me as I possibly can. There will be little left of you, when I am finished. When I am dead. My final gift to you."

"I don't believe you," she replied. "You're trying to scare me into letting go of you. I won't."

"I am telling the truth. You were right; I cannot manipulate the past. But your decision controls the future. Erik is slowly healing. He will become a little better each day. Physically and otherwise. He could walk into the office of any plastic surgeon in the world now, and they would see him as a goldmine of opportunity. But you. There is no coming back from what I will do to you."

"I don't believe you. I don't care!"

"You do care. I know you do. What makes you certain that he won't abandon you? Him and Raoul and all of them, all of the people you trusted, when they realize what's left of you? Eventually, they will give up. They will move on, leaving you in a place like this. Just as you have feared for the last ten years. You will die like your mother. Alone and ignored. So that world I showed you - it is not so far from reality."

"You're going to die," she replied. "No matter what you say right now, I'm not letting go. You're going to die."

_It_ growled, "Wake up and tell Erik that you are ready to give me a new body. He will do that for you in a heartbeat. Let me go! And then we all may live."

"I won't!" She violently shook her head. "I'm done with you. I don't care what happens!"

"You will have no memories! No mind left! You will have no one!" _it_ screamed. "You will be nothing! Let me out! Release me!"

Christine didn't know if she believed it. She knew that _it _would probably try to do damage, when it had nothing left to lose. Still, she held on. She had to.

"Release me!" it screamed. "He will leave you!" The CD case suddenly lay at her feet, intact. "You won't have anyone. Ever again. Release me! Release me, you stupid little bitch!"

She picked up the case. She turned it over to read the print again. Swallowing the lump in her throat, along with her fear, she smiled. "You know what? He sounds pretty happy here."

"But you sure as hell will not be!" _it _roared.

"If you're dead and Erik's happy, wherever he is…whatever he decides to do after all this…I think that's enough. I think I've done my part. I think I did really well, actually."

"Release me! Release me!"_ It _flickered and wobbled, a black blanket being torn at the seams. "Let go of me! I hate you!"

"Angela died. My mother died. I'm sure many others have. Trying to do the right thing. Trying to destroy you. And you'll never understand why, will you? You're incapable. Whatever you are, animal or monster or alien – I don't really care anymore - you're not capable of understanding anything that isn't selfish. Whatever happens, you have to die. So that no one else ever has their life ruined by you again."

She stood, steady on her feet. And as _it _shivered and shook, threatening to separate, she tackled the creature. For the first time, she grabbed onto it. They both screamed, and the sound turned into a single piercing wail. For less than a second, they merged. She was blinded. And she felt the ice cold and the scorching heat. She felt misery and hatred. "I will ruin you!" _it _screamed. "I will find a way back! I always do! You cannot be rid of me. I will find a way back! This is all mine! I belong here! This is my world! You will be nothing! _Nothing!_"

_It_ exploded. Just as it said it would. A bomb. A deafening roar. She shattered into a thousand pieces. Or at least her mind did. She reached out and clung tightly to some of the fragments, even as she was forced to let most of the others go. Her body vibrated from the impact.

Light. Pain. Arms clinging to her.

Her thoughts were crumbled glass.

* * *

><p>The fifteen or so hours beneath the ground had been pure hell.<p>

Thoughts of his past had crept into his unraveling mind, years wasted on useless endeavors. Trying to please the thing. Trying to escape the thing. Years of nothing. And now he had destroyed the one person who had ever meant anything to him. He had been so certain that she was going to die in his arms. She had shivered and groaned. She had gasped and bled. He had cursed and wept into her hair.

The ground began to tremble beneath them, and he was nearly too devastated to notice.

Or care.

But his love was still alive.

She opened her lids and looked up into his masked face. She tried to talk or breathe. Red sputtered out of her mouth. Blood was streaming out of her nose.

The earthquake continued. She looked up at the concrete ceiling. So did he.

"Christine," he whispered in awe, staring back at her. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. "You are alive! You are still here! And is _it_ gone? It is, isn't it?" She nodded once. She pointed upward with a shaking hand. Their surroundings rumbled and shook. The coffin bounced and wobbled. He jumped up, finally grasping what was happening. "_It_ is trying to kill us!" He ran toward the stairs. Pieces of the ceiling rained down upon them, little particles of cement stinging the top of his head. She buried her face in his shirt, creating red markings all across it. He stumbled and cursed as he raced up the steps. She clung to his shoulders and coughed from the dust.

He ran outside just as the entrance collapsed. And he felt the chimes in his head vanish as the building fell. As _it_ died. _It_ was gone! Back to whatever hell it had come from.

Nighttime. Warm air on his face. The smell of summer vegetation. She looked over his shoulder as the building caved in on itself.

"You are worried?" he asked, also glancing back. The windows were all dark. "I do not believe anyone was inside. Not at this time of night. Do not be concerned about that. But you are alive!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse with joy. His heart expanded with wonderful warmth. "You are alive! And that is all that matters now, Christine. Are you injured?" He took out a black handkerchief and dabbed at her face, wiping the blood away. "Are you injured? You must tell me!" She stared at him, taking deep breaths. Her mouth opened. "What? What is it, my love?"

"I….I…."

"Yes? Christine! Say something! Are you hurt?"

What she said was the last thing he wanted to hear. Her words came out slowly, each syllable a challenge. "Can I…see-" She touched her own nose. "Face?"

"What does that have to do with anything? _Why?"_ he questioned with more grief than anger. "Haven't you been traumatized enough within the past few days? Haven't we all?"

"Please," she whispered. "Please. I-I want to-to know."

"Know what?"

"Please." Her lip trembled.

"For God's sake," he muttered. "Why?" After a hesitation, he reached behind his head and roughly removed the mask. She started to cry. "Is it even worse?" he asked, devastated. "Worse than before?" He reached up with one hand and touched his own cheek and forehead. "Perhaps it is healing and scabbed and simply looks more horrific. I will hide it until it is better. I will. Do not cry. Why did you want—"

"No. No. Don't-Erik!" She said his name victoriously. "Erik! I…can think of past…I can _re—mem-ber_ you. _It _didn't take you. It said it would take…take all things, but it didn't! I remember you!" She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. "I remember you! I remember you!" His hand touched the back of her head. He found a wooden bench and took a seat, continuing to hold her. There were shrill noises in the distance. Sirens. For the fallen building.

His hand stroked her hair. Finally, he gently pulled back and looked into her confused blue eyes. "What do you remember?" he asked, tilting his head. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. Because he was slowly starting to understand.

She swallowed. "Things you said. Music! Seeing you in a…the…with lots of…of the…of books. Being with you."

"What else do you remember? Besides Erik?" He kept his voice quiet and calm, even as his heart pounded.

"I don't know." She looked down. "Some faces. Some words…that…the other faces said. Red and orange…paper—leaves. A music…thing…. Dark. Trees." The effort was exhausting her. "I can't now. Please. I can't." Her shoulders drooped.

He was silent for a long moment as he processed this. "You are alive," he said, exhaling. He touched her cheek and guided her to look at him. "You are alive, and that is perfect. That is fine. It has to be for now. It was all I wished for, begged for." Another pause as he tried to hold himself together. "Yet perhaps I should take you to a hospital. They could scan—"

"No!" She clearly recognized that word and place. Immediately, she panicked. "I don't want to. Not now. Please. Not now!"

"What do you want?" he asked, gripping her tightly. "I will do anything for you. What do you want?"

"I'm tired. I want to go to a place that is-is quiet. And sleep. Can we?"

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, we can certainly do that." He wearily continued, "Chagny will wish to know that you survived. But we will have to be careful of the other idiot. I will have to deal with that. Until I am certain you are safe, I cannot make you known. So we cannot return to your apartment tonight. And perhaps you should not be there anyways, as that is the original site of this nightmare. But we will find somewhere else."

She stared blankly at him as he spoke, and he feared that she didn't understand most of it. Without another word, he carried her back to the car, her arms wound around his neck. She fell asleep instantly, lying in the backseat. He found a hotel that was slightly on the outskirts of the town, not too upscale nor too dilapidated. The young man at the desk appeared ready to call the cops at the first sight of his mask. But once _he'd_ handed over a wad of cash that covered the cost of the room by more than double, all was settled.

Still, he knew that he would have to find a more realistic looking prosthetic soon. Now that he was no longer chaining himself below ground for the rest of his life. Now that he actually had a life in front of him.

With her. If she wanted him. He didn't care about anything else.

The next time that Christine awoke, they were in the dim room. He was placing her on a large bed and gently pulling the sheets and comforter over her. A picture of a white sailboat against a blue ocean hung over her. She opened her eyes and sat up, staring back and forth with confusion. Where are we?" she whispered, shaking.

"A hotel. Not an ideal option, but it will do for a night."

"I have never been?"

"Here? No."

"Good. I…don't remember it."

"No," he softly replied. "You would not recognize it. Are you comfortable?" It took her a moment to identify the word, so he added, "Warm?"

"Yes." She lingered awake. He walked back and forth, wringing his hands, unable to settle in one spot. "Erik?"

"Yes?" He came to her side again.

"Will you tell me things the next day?"

"What?"

"Will you...help remember? Where we are. And when we are. And-and-"

"Yes, yes," he assured her. "I will tell you everything you wish. An entire history of the world, if you like. But sleep now. You simply need to rest. And that will help you. And then we will figure the rest of this out later."

"You'll tell the-the real thing? Even if it's not good?"

"Yes," he murmured, understanding. "I will not lie to you. Even if the truth is unhappy."

"Truth." She managed a smile as he gave her the word she sought. "Thank you."

He pushed back the mask and kissed her forehead. She was back asleep within seconds.

He soon stepped outside to call Chagny from a phone that wouldn't be traced, more to determine the threat than to provide reassurance. Standing in the shadow of an ice machine, he also kept watch over the parking lot, making sure no one suspicious appeared. Like priests who thought themselves to be secret agents.

"Is she alive?" That was of course Chagny's first question.

"Yes," he tiredly answered. "She is alive."

"Thank God!" Chagny gave a soft sob of relief. "Is that goddamned thing gone?"

"It is, I believe. In any case, it is not in her. And it is not in me. I think it is dead. I cannot hear it any longer." Before the boy could ask another question, _he_ continued, "This will not be a long conversation. I need to know how much danger she is in."

Chagny spoke carefully. "If that thing is gone - if she's alive and it's gone - we need to tell him that. We can show him there's no more threat. That's all he cares about. Not blame."

"I do not want him near her!"

"What's the alternative? Hiding her forever when there's no reason to? We need to show him that she's okay." A long pause. "She is okay, right?" _He_ said nothing. "Right? Erik, she's okay?"

"I do not know," he finally admitted.

"What do you mean?!" Chagny frantically questioned. "What's wrong?"

"Her mind is unwell. When that creature died, it injured her brain somehow. She is very confused, and her memory is poor. Perhaps it will simply take time for her to heal. I do not know." He felt a pain in his heart as he said this aloud.

Chagny was quiet for several seconds. "Are you going to take her to the hospital?"

"She became very upset at the suggestion. It frightens her."

"But maybe she still needs to—"

"I doubt they will be able to do much for her. _It_ likely altered her neural connectivity in ways that modern medicine could not even detect. I will attempt to convince her that—"

Chagny softly interrupted, "What if she can't act in her own best interest right now?"

"Then she can't! I don't care!" _he _snapped. "I will not bring any more terror or sorrow to her face, if I can help it. I cannot! I will do exactly as she wishes. And I will determine what to do with the idiot."

"You're not going to hurt him, right? That would just bring the people he works for down harder on us. Lorenzo can tell them that the thing is gone and that she's not a threat. He's not a bad person."

"Hush, Chagny."

"Lorenzo didn't pull the trigger. He lowered the gun."

"That is the end of the discussion."

Chagny sighed. "Can I at least see her soon?"

"Later. You will hear from me later. Do not do anything stupid." _He_ hung up before Chagny could reply. He hadn't told the boy that Christine might not even remember him. Despite the obvious benefits of that scenario, that was not what _he _wanted. The months had altered him.

For the rest of the night, _he _sat in an armchair at her bedside, watching her chest move up and down.

Of all the memories she could have held onto, Christine had somehow chosen him. And that made his chest ache in the worst and best of ways. He did not deserve such a gift.

He did not deserve any of this. The absence of pain. The freedom. This new…_life._

All because of her.

The morning would not be easy.

None of the days that stretched out before them were going to be. Nothing ever had been.

But they were alive. And they were together at this fragile moment.

And they were alone.

_They were alone!_

And, for now, that was good enough.


	40. Chapter 40

So here is a shorter, sweeter chapter for all of you —although it's not without angst. The next will have a little more plot to it. And then there will be one or two more chapters to end the story, along with an epilogue. Thank you all!

**Read and Review!**

Somehow, he actually fell asleep, his head tilted against the side of the chair. He had never experienced a dream, nor what one would call a thorough night's sleep. His slumber had a shadowed tinge to it.

He jumped when a hand brushed against his knee. Sleep made him vulnerable. His mask was slightly askew. She was sitting up and now leaning back slightly. Christine blinked.

He said her name in a raspy, relieved voice. She looked lovely, her hair falling into her face. Her color had returned, and her lips were no longer blue. But her eyes were still lost. "How are you?" he asked, fixing his mask.

"Fine," she said, although she glanced down.

"Do you remember?"

"No." She looked back up at him. "I can't yet. Sorry."

"That is fine," he quickly replied. "I was not expecting a miracle. It will take time. Do you need anything?" She slowly turned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She inhaled. Christine pushed herself up and reached for him. He stood, allowing her to grab his arm and lean against his hip. "What is wrong?"

To his relief, she replied, "Tired." If the creature had taken her motor coordination, the path ahead would have been unimaginably difficult. In fact, when he considered the full scope of what _it _could have stolen, a horrible chill settled over him. She took another breath, and he forced his attention back to her. "I'm okay. I can." Christine took several unsteady steps forward. "I'm okay," she said again. He released her, and she made her way to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

He listened to the rush of water, rather lost himself. Christine emerged twenty minutes later, her hair and face slightly damp. Already, she appeared tired, rubbing her eyes as she slowly walked forward. She made her way to the window. She pushed back the brown curtain and then stepped backward, blinded by daylight. Their room was over the parking lot, green fields in the distance as the town merged with the rural outskirts. Christine stared, and he came up behind her. His eyes were also unaccustomed to the sun. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Outside the town. Off the highway. Perhaps thirty minutes from your apartment." When she continued to squint, he gently added, "What do you not understand?" She couldn't answer. So he asked, "Do you understand town, state - nation?"

Christine put a hand to her forehead. "I don't know. I'm…dizzy. A map?"

"You want a map? I will easily get you that. And a globe."

"Yes. A globe."

She left the window and went back to the bed, sitting heavily upon it. The room was unnervingly quiet. A different world, a limbo between the supernatural and the mundane.

She was staring down at herself, at the torn, dirty pajamas. His white shirt was still dotted with her blood.

"We will need more clothes," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, touching her shirt. "I have other clothes?"

"Of course. Many. And we can find you new ones, if you like."

"I want to see old things. To remember."

"You will. If we leave, we will make sure to collect your belongings. I promise."

She glanced up. "Why? Why do we need to leave the…town?"

This would be complicated. Even if Christine had come out unscathed, she wouldn't have remembered John's fate. _He_ had vowed to tell her the truth, but this matter would have to be handled with care. He didn't want her to sink into a catatonic state.

"Do you recall Lorenzo and John?" he asked. She shook her head. Perhaps that was for the best. "But you do remember the Shadow Creature?" She nodded. "They were helping to fight the creature. Do you understand?" She nodded again. "Now the creature was inside you, right? Lorenzo believes that it is still in you, and that is why he is dangerous. He is willing to harm you in order to kill the Shadow Creature."

"But it's not there anymore."

"Exactly, my dear. So we either must convince…make Lorenzo believe that the creature is gone. Or leave to escape him." _Or kill him._

"Yes. We can do that. It's not in me," she said. He was thankful for his eloquence.

He hesitantly asked another question. "Do you remember Chagny?" She tilted her head. "Raoul Chagny," he muttered.

"A little. He had hair my color. And he was nice."

"Yes. Wonderful." There was a touch of sarcasm that she couldn't detect. "He wants to know that you are well. He wants to see you."

"Because he is my friend," she explained to herself.

"Yes. Merely a friend. In any case, first we will see him."

"When?"

"Tonight. If you feel well enough to do so. The sooner I can determine the danger, the better."

"Okay." She paused. "I am…Can I have food?"

"Hungry. Of course. I am an idiot for not offering it to you. Even I need it now. How banal. But I will find us some. Perhaps not the most appetizing, but it will suffice. Do you wish to sneak around this two-star establishment with Erik or stay here?"

She worked with what she understood, smiling slightly. "I cannot…sneak. I'll stay here."

"Then I will be back soon."

He managed to creep around the lobby area and take food items unnoticed. God forbid he come face to black mask with an elderly woman or a small child. He gathered a little of everything. Cereal. Yogurt. Fruit. Milk. After that, he went to the car and grabbed the laptop. He'd kept the computer in the vehicle ever since Chagny made the intelligent decision to contact John without permission. That had all worked out so very well….

When he returned, she was watching the television, her eyes wide. "What is wrong?" He turned toward the screen and expected to see the end of the world. There was a commercial for dog food.

"So much," she whispered without looking at him. "So much I don't remember."

"You must give yourself time." He placed the items on the nightstand beside her. "It has been less than twenty-four hours since a nightmare exploded in your brain. And look. You managed to work the remote control."

"But there's _so_ much." A new commercial came on. "Like that."

"Amusement park."

"And that? What does the man do?"

"Law office. Lawyer. You will be happier knowing less about those."

"And-"

He allowed this to continue until her voice became frantic. Then he said, "Please. That is enough for now."

"But-"

"If you panic, it will be worse. You will not be able to think at all. You must try to be calm. And eventually we will return to a more familiar setting." She shakily nodded. "I brought you a computer. I can show you maps, if you like. I will show you anything. If you will turn off that awful device." He gestured toward the T.V.

Her face lit up. "Thank you, Erik."

As she fumbled with the remote control, he opened the laptop and clicked to a map of the state. He turned the screen toward her. "Is this familiar?"

"Yes. The...shape. The water."

"Good. Now you live here." He pointed toward the middle. She traced her finger along the image and nodded. He showed her the country and then a two-dimensional view of the world. When she seemed tired of maps, he pulled up a search engine. "You can look at whatever you like. It is less assaulting to the senses than the television."

Her hands hovered over the keys. She typed a letter "b" with her index finger and then drew back. "I want to sleep now." Christine pushed the computer away, lay down, and placed her head onto the pillow. She stared at the ceiling for about ten minutes before closing her eyes. Her sudden lack of interest was odd. Yet sleeping was perhaps the best thing for her. The mind could repair itself, reestablish connections and store memories.

He brushed his fingers against her forehead, his heart swelling with love and pain, and anger toward himself and that vile, disgusting, wretched creature.

He would not call Chagny and set up a meeting. Someone might hear the conversation. Fortunately, the boy still had the cell phone and could be easily tracked and intercepted. Also somewhat risky, but their options were limited. Chagny was their best path to Lorenzo.

She slept most of the morning, occasionally waking to eat or drink. He stepped out again for thirty minutes. And - he stole some items from the backroom inventory of the nearest clothing store. It wasn't a matter of money. When he was invincible, he'd stopped caring what anyone thought of his frightening appearance. Let them call the police or shoot at him. If they came too close, the creature threw them backwards. But now it was unsafe to be repeatedly seen and known as the freak in the black mask. And once they were safe, he was going to have to make some decisions. Or risk becoming some kind of urban legend.

He found a new white shirt for himself. A yellow blouse and jeans for her, along with undergarments. Through the back. Out the door. No alarms. No one would miss them.

Christine sat up when he returned, her brow furrowed. Perhaps it was difficult for her to be alone. She thanked him for the clothing and hurried into the bathroom to change. That took her about ten minutes. The items were a little large on her, but she appeared refreshed. She looked down at herself, seemingly satisfied.

"Is there anything you would like?" he asked.

"Can we see pictures?"

"Of what, darling?"

She shrugged. "Anything!"

So he grabbed the laptop and showed her a variety of photographs. She still didn't want to type anything herself, and he had a growing fear as to why. But they would address that later. He showed her landmarks, animals, famous people and historical figures - anything that might ring the bells in her damaged mind. He sighed as she leaned against his narrow chest and shoulder, her head beneath his chin.

_Touch._

That was what had led to all of this. For many months, she had touched him out of compassion. And he had lapped her pity up like a parched dog. But, that fateful night at her apartment, she had finally touched him because of something more. And, if only for an hour, he had wanted to feel the caress of someone who actually loved him. So he had stayed against his better judgment. And nearly killed her.

She did it without thinking now. She took his hand, reached for him - used it to communicate when her words escaped her. Touch was still so foreign, especially in this fragile human form. He tried not to overreact and startle her. He tried not to confuse her even more with the horrible mess in his own head. She hugged him when they were finished, not a trace of pity in her eyes, and he nearly came undone.

Late afternoon arrived. "We will go for a drive now," he said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Yes," she agreed. "To see Raoul."

"Ah. The trip of a lifetime," he replied. She gave him an odd look. "Do not mind me, my dear."

Christine stood in the doorway and stared at the world, hesitating before stepping into it. He could not imagine what it all looked like to her now. An alien planet. She squared her shoulders and walked close to his side, past the other rooms…down the concrete stairs and near a small pool filled with loud children.

From the tracking device, he knew that Chagny had gone out around six thirty, likely for dinner. They would intercept the boy before he arrived home. If Lorenzo happened to be with him, there was plenty of room in the trunk.

She only asked a few questions, but he saw her staring at everything, taking it in. Construction sites with heavy equipment. A cop with a pulled over vehicle. Parks with playgrounds. He finally stopped in front of a casual restaurant and waited for Chagny to emerge. She watched as a family of four passed over a yellow crosswalk. "Children," she said. "Parents."

"Yes."

"I don't have parents, right?"

"No. They have passed on. They are not alive now." He added, "But you will want to remember them, especially your mother."

"Okay."

Chagny walked out by himself with a white paper bag. _He_ slowly drove up. The boy stared at the tinted windows and took a step backward. "Boo," he said, dryly, rolling down the window. "Get in the back."

It took Chagny a moment to speak. "_You._ Is she-"

"Get in. I do not intend to linger here."

"Because climbing into the back of a car with you is sure to lead to good things," Chagny muttered. His frown disappeared as soon as he saw her in the passenger's seat. "Christine!" He climbed in with little resistance. As the car sped forward, the boy leaned forward and gave her an irritating one-armed embrace. "God! It's so great to see you! I was sure I'd - Well, it's awesome to see you. You look much better. You look great."

"How are you?" she softly asked, her words carefully enunciated.

"I'm okay now. That was pretty terrifying, though. I don't think I'll ever forget. I'll have nightmares for a while. But I'll be okay. How about you?"

"Fine," she replied. "I am fine." She was trying to hide her injury.

"Great!" Chagny stared at her, maybe sensing something was off. "You remember everything?"

She stared at her hands. "We saw ducks."

"What?"

She turned around. "Didn't we see ducks? At a...park?"

"Yeah. A few months ago. Why?"

"I remember."

"What?" Chagny appeared increasingly distressed and was terrible at hiding it. "Are you-are you saying that's all you remember about us?"

"No. I knew you had hair like me. And you were nice. I know you were good."

"What else did you forget?"

"Lots of things," she replied with an uncomfortable shrug.

"Sweetheart, maybe you should see a doctor."

She jumped and gripped onto the seat. "No! Why? I remembered things! I can be better! I'll be better!"

"Sweetheart, you—"

"That is enough!"_ he_ snapped at Chagny. "We will address all that later. You are upsetting her. Christine, you will never have to go anywhere you do not want to go. And, right now, I need to determine what to do with our fine friend, Lorenzo. "He stopped the car at the side of the road in an older neighborhood, checking the mirror to make sure no one was following them. The shadows of leafy trees obscured the car.

Chagny sighed. "He's trying to get John's b…." The boy wisely glanced at Christine. "He's trying to get John to London. Back to his family. When we went to the apartment, Lorenzo called the police. But he didn't blame this on us. He said John fell. Most of the evidence there was the exorcism stuff, so it looks kind of weird. But, even if the cops question it, I think Lorenzo has connections that can help him. He just wants to know that the thing is gone."

"Are those _connections _coming here?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I don't know. But-" Chagny glanced at Christine. "It's obvious that it is gone. After he talks to her, he'll know. He can tell everyone else that it's over."

"I can tell him it's gone," she agreed.

Chagny miraculously had a point. Christine's entire demeanor was so genuinely innocent—that only an utter moron would think her dangerous. She'd barely begun to heal, and whisking her away would be even more traumatizing. Hiding her away forever would be a tragedy. "Fine. But I will do it my way,"_ he_ said. "Do you have a way of contacting him?"

"Yeah. A phone number."

"Excellent. You will tell him to meet you somewhere to discuss this matter. Tell him you have new information. Say…your apartment at six tomorrow evening. He will actually be meeting me. If I believe it is safe, we will show him that she is no threat. And he can call off the dogs."

"I'm only doing that if you promise not to do anything to him," Chagny replied.

_His _shoulders tensed as he felt Christine's concerned, questioning gaze settle upon him. And he wanted to throttle Chagny for saying that in front of her. And yet - this would not be the last of these moments, these crossroads. He calmly and quietly replied, "I will not _do_ anything to him, Chagny. But if I deem him a threat, I will take her and disappear. And you may never see her again. This is her life on the line. Not mine. Remember that."

"I do. I get it. But if anything happens to him, you'd have to run anyway. It'd be better if there were no more damage." _He _didn't respond. "What am I supposed to do while you're with Lorenzo?"

"You will stay with Christine," he muttered.

"Oh. Good, then."

_He_ added, "You will contact me immediately if he does not agree to meet you."

"I will," Chagny replied. "It's going to be okay."

"I will make that determination." Without another word, _he _turned around and drove Chagny back to the restaurant.

"Take care," the boy said to Christine. "We'll talk later."

"You take care, too," she replied.

After climbing out of the car, Chagny paused by _his _window and leaned in with a scowl. "You need to have someone see her," he whispered. "A doctor or something. She needs help!"

"At least she is alive," _he_ snapped.

"Yeah. I know. But why the hell did all of this have to happen in the first place?" Chagny shook his head and walked away.

Christine stared after him. "He's sad."

"Chagny will be fine." Chagny was right.

Repeatedly checking his side and rearview mirrors, he drove them back to the hotel. "Erik? What happened to John?" He didn't answer. "Erik?"

"The creature killed him." Before she could ask further questions, he continued, "I told you that I would always tell you the truth. But—will you let me tell you this truth another day? Can you trust me when I say that it might not be best for you to hear the details now?"

"Yes," she murmured. "Okay."

_He_ turned on classical piano music. "Do you remember this?"

"Yes!" Her eyes widened. "I do!"

"Divine. Really, we should explore that avenue. Music. Scents. Something besides words and pictures that will help your memory."

"Yeah." She curled her legs up into the seat.

"Perhaps you will remember how to sing. If not, you will pick that up again very quickly. I am sure of it."

"And the-the-the violin."

"Exactly." He glanced at his finger.

"Library. That's where I found you. The book place."

"Yes. Very good. You found me when there was…really nothing left to find."

The rest of the drive was quiet as the music played. The sun continued its descent, and the shadows lengthened. There were still children splashing about in the pool, and she seemed to enjoy watching them. Their laughter echoed in the warm evening air. He made her momentarily stand outside while he inspected the room for unwanted guests. She watched him work, a small smile forming on her lips. She approached him when he told her to come in. "Yes?" he asked as Christine stared upwards, waiting for something.

"Will you take off your mask?"

"Why?"

"I like to remember. I like to see you."

"I wish you had forgotten. I could have told you I was handsome. But, then, I promised not to lie, didn't I?" He took it off without more of a fuss and moved to…to find some excuse not to look directly at her.

She touched his shoulder. She put a hand on his mottled, scarred cheek. She stood on her toes. And leaned in to kiss him. And he turned his head to the side. "What's wrong?" she asked, hurt. She stepped back.

"Nothing is wrong."

He saw her squint, desperately combing through her memories. He was used to keeping her at a distance. He'd had to, for his sanity. And for her welfare. But now? He sighed. "Do you remember the last time? The last…kiss between us?" She nodded. "Do you remember what happened afterwards?"

"You stayed."

"Yes. I did. And I should have left. That night, I should have gone a thousand miles away. Instead, I nearly killed you. I hurt you."

"That's a lie," she said, her eyes flashing with anger. She stepped back again and ran into the bed. She sat and stared up at him. "You didn't hurt me. Not that night."

"I gave you a long, preposterous speech about finally doing the right thing for you. But, at the end, I could not leave you. I took everything you offered, every kindness - and I drained you. And I spread that vile creature to you-"

"No. I did this! Not you! I took it from you. I remember that."

"I brought it to you like the plague. And I was an absolute idiot not to anticipate that the monster would eventually come after you. Of course it would! I did this—"

"No! I did. And I…I don't…can't think of the word." She shook her head, her fists clenched at her sides. "I am not upset about taking it. I'm happy you stayed. I don't…re…I…re….I can't."

"Regret?" he whispered. "But you—"

"Yes! Regret." She looked up again. "I don't regret it. I did it for me, too! I wanted to-to keep you. You were leaving and hurting. I don't regret it. Even if I'm…even if I'm dumb now. I'd-I'd rather be dumb than sad. Than so heart…broken. Now I'm broken, I guess. But I'm not a-a child. I know what I did. I don't regret it. Okay?" Her eyes filled with tears. _"Okay?"_

He sat beside her. She glanced away. "No. Look at me." She obeyed, a tear falling down her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb. His hands trembled as they settled upon her shoulders and slid to her arms. "You are not _dumb. _You have had your mind scrambled by a hellish beast. You have been injured. And I cannot promise that you will be better quickly. No more than I can promise that Erik will ever be anything but the ugliest man you have ever met. But - you are still lovely and bright and wonderful. You are still perfect. You gave me an actual life. And I will do everything in my power to never hurt you again." She gazed up at him with glistening eyes. A soft sob escaped her lips. He glanced down. "And to…make you happy, if you will allow me. If you still want that."

She leaned in, and he did not look away. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Another kiss. His first one as a free man. Still so new to him that he was terrified of making a mess of it. Her hand touched the back of his head, brushing against the tiny new hairs that had sprouted from his skull. Her lips were warm and soft against his cold, dry ones. She held him close to her. The kiss ended with hope instead of dread, her hand on his cheek. She smiled at him as she drew back. There was no voice in his mind, threatening and mocking him. Only her beautiful voice. "You should stay after this one, too. Please stay."

"I love you," he choked.

In the end, it was done.

It could not be undone. He had never asked her to do this terrible and wonderful thing for him. He had not manipulated or tricked her into it. The opposite. It was her decision. And to deny that was to insult her. She embraced him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He exhaled and allowed himself to feel her. He allowed himself to love her, despite the guilt and the uncertainty. And the fear of having something so precious to keep and to lose.

"What will happen next?" she asked.

"I must ensure your safety, and I do not know what that will entail. But I hope to end this affair in a relatively peaceful way, for your sake." He ran his hand through her hair. He kissed the side of her head. He'd never get enough of her. "After that, well - I suppose I will show you your life. And you can decide what you wish to do. Perhaps you will want to resume your schooling?"

"I don't remember it. I can try."

He did fear for her. He feared she faced many days of frustration. But—he could not panic. "I think music can help you. I will fill your days with it. If you wish to leave this town for a bit, we can do that, too. Whatever you like. There's so much, I suppose. And it will all be new now, won't it?" He felt her nod.

He held her even after she fell asleep. Occasionally, she would awaken confused, and he would remind her of where they were. And, yes, the creature was truly dead. She didn't need to fight it any longer; she simply needed to sleep. And _– no!_ - she would never be locked away in a hospital.

And, yes, he would stay.

He would stay forever.


	41. Chapter 41

I received some very lovely reviews on that last chapter, so thank you! I'm happy that everyone loves this E/C. I will dearly miss them. Either one or two more chapters to go after this one, plus an Epilogue.

**Read and Review!**

Raoul knew he should have been happy that she was alive.

He had expected Erik to return carrying her corpse. Or, more likely, a quick phone call. _She's gone._ And then an eternal quiet nothingness. Not even a body to bury.

So to see Christine talking and smiling and living should have been the best thing on earth. And it was—until Raoul started thinking about their lives just a year ago. They were getting ready for the new semester, contemplating their futures. Raoul could accept that she'd broken up with him over incompatibility. He _had _accepted it. He'd left her alone and tried to rebuild. But now that he'd been dragged back into her life, he couldn't keep the question out of his head—

_Why did she leave me for this?_

And by _this_, he didn't just mean Erik. All of it. The horror. Nearly dying. And now—the ruination of her mind. It was painful to watch her self-destruction.

With no other plan, he did what Erik wanted regarding Lorenzo. "Hey. It's Raoul. I have more information about Christine. Can we talk? My place this evening?"

Lorenzo hesitated. "What kind of information?"

"I think she's dead," he lied, adding sorrow to his voice. "So—"

"Why do you say that? What happened?" Lorenzo didn't sound happy. That was good.

"Look. I'd rather talk to you face to face. My apartment around six?"

"All right. I can be there."

Raoul gave him the address and directions. "Everything okay with getting John back?" he then asked.

"Yes. Probably the day after tomorrow. It should be settled with few problems. Who would believe the truth anyway, right?"

Raoul felt a twinge of guilt. "Right. Okay. Well, again, I'm really sorry for all this. I asked you out here."

"You don't need to be sorry. John died doing something that he believed in. The line of duty, I think you call it. So let's just make sure everyone else is safe. Have a good night."

Raoul did trust Lorenzo to do the right thing. After Lorenzo had first called the police about John, he'd next phoned someone else, probably whomever they worked for. Lorenzo had nearly broken into tears as he declared, "Zenith is gone." They must have had code names for each other or something. In any case, Lorenzo clearly had a heart.

Still, Erik was right. This was Christine's life on the line. So Raoul risked bearing the burden of Lorenzo's well-being.

Raoul texted Erik: _Done._

Erik called him with a meeting place. "Do not get out of your car. Follow me from there."

Raoul headed to the spot around five in the afternoon, near a gas station and an abandoned bar, Big Jim's Pub. All the windows were boarded up, and nonsensical graffiti decorated the outside. He spotted the black car on the side of the road and followed it, checking his mirrors for any sign of trouble. _Great. I'm becoming as paranoid as he is. _He followed Erik to a hotel just off the highway, one where the rooms led to the outdoors and a small pool in front. It looked normal enough.

He didn't even see Erik park. As Raoul climbed out of his car, he heard a voice in his ear. "Room 215." Startled, he found his way up there. The door opened. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he stepped inside.

The room was normal. Maybe too normal. A rumpled bedspread and a yellow shirt flung over a chair. Paper plates and plastic forks on the table. A nature magazine spread open on the bed.

Christine sat at the desk. Her hair was in a ponytail, and her feet were bare. She gave him a small wave. Raoul dully smiled, feeling out of place. Erik broke into the moment, "You will call me if there is trouble. I will be back in an hour or so, depending on how difficult he makes this."

"All right." Raoul swallowed. "You won't hurt him? I mean, if you have to knock him out, I get it. But please. I already have John on my shoulders."

"Why? I allowed you to bring those useless buffoons here."

"Yeah. But it was my idea."

Erik shrugged. "If it had not been my idea, they never would have come. Do not carry that one, boy. That would be stupid."

It was maybe the nicest thing Erik had ever said to him.

Christine walked up to Erik. "Be careful." She gave him a hug.

His arms wrapped around her shoulders. "I am in no danger, my dear. But I might return here with the idiot. Simply tell him the truth. Or—I may tell you that we have to go. So be prepared to leave." She nodded. "I will see you very soon."

Avoiding their displays of affection, Raoul glanced down until she again sat across from him. He felt a little more comfortable when Erik left, no longer needing to walk on eggshells. "Hi," he said, forcing some cheerfulness into his voice. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," she replied. "How are you doing?" It sounded like she was trying to mimic his speech in an attempt to be normal.

"I'm hanging in there. Have you, uh, have you remembered anything else?"

"Not very much. But you can tell me things now."

He sadly chuckled and rubbed his eyes. "Geez. I'm not sure even where to begin, Chris. We spent a lot of time together. There's a lot of memories."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you don't need to be sorry. It's a little hard. That's all."

"Yes. It is." She wrung her hands. "Raoul. We were not only…friends, were we?"

"No," he admitted. "We were a little more than that."

"But-but before this, we had—" She put her two hands together in front of her, entwining her fingers, and then split them apart. "We were only friends?"

"Yeah. We'd already broken up."

"Okay. That is-" A pause. "Where did we meet?"

"A library. You were working there, and I asked you out on a date. Oh, well, that's not quite right. We were kids when we first saw each other. My cousin's awful birthday party. But then we met later in college."

"I remember the party," she said with a grin. "Girls in dresses. Horse toys."

"Right. That's right. Do you, uh, remember the Italian place we liked to go?"

"What is that?"

"Pizza? Pasta?" He couldn't stop the note of despair from entering his voice.

"Food. That's what you're saying."

"Yeah. We did a lot of eating out. I brought some pictures, too." He took out his wallet and removed the photographs. "We went horseback riding. An amusement park. That kind of thing."

She took the photos, her eyes widening. "Yes, I see. Thank you!" Christine turned them over and looked at the back. She squinted, frowning.

"Yeah, you wrote funny little messages on the back."

"Oh." She handed them back to him, avoiding his eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Did you remember something bad?"

"No, it's nothing."

"Christine, what's wrong? You can tell me."

"I haven't told Erik," she whispered, folding into herself a little bit. "I don't want him to be sadder."

"What is it?"

I…I can't read now."

"Sweetheart—"

"It's very hard. I can make the letter sounds. But that's it."

Raoul tried not to overreact. "Maybe it's because you don't remember so many words."

"Yeah." She pointed at the roller coaster picture. "What does it say?"

Raoul turned it over and read, "Glad we didn't get sick on this thing. That would have been an awkward date! Next time, we'll do the Ferris wheel!"

"Oh. That's funny." She looked like she was going to laugh and cry at the same time. She smiled, and her face scrunched up.

Raoul put the pictures away. "I think it'd be really good for you to see a doctor. Maybe someone who deals with the brain. A neurologist? They could point you in the—"

"No!" Christine flinched backward, looking ready to run away. That'd be a disaster. "Erik said I didn't have to!"

"Calm down," he pled. "No one is forcing you. We care about you." She was breathing quickly, on the edge of a panic attack. "Okay. You don't have to go. Jesus, Christine. Do you know how hard it is to see you like this? So confused and- and helpless. I want you to be better. But never mind. Forget I said anything. I'm sorry. I'll shut up." Raoul stared down at the desk, trying to seek calm. They were both quiet for nearly a minute.

Finally, she whispered, "You look at me so sadly."

"I can't help it. This last year has been really hard. To see you so upset and scared last winter. Distant in the spring. Breaking up. And then this last week." He sighed. "It's been hard. I don't understand why this had to happen to you."

"I know what you're saying," she said. "I don't have words to tell you. But I will be okay."

"I know." He didn't know. But he didn't want to make her feel any worse.

"Will you tell me more things?"

"Yeah. Of course." He shoved away his anger and frustration and did so. He described their lives a little bit, their dates and conversations and inside jokes. Their go-to movies and restaurants. Their silly arguments. She listened intently, barely blinking. It was a semi-therapeutic trip down Memory Lane. Raoul's voice quieted as he reached the last year. He hesitantly asked, "Do you remember last fall and winter?"

"Some things. Meeting Erik. And later."

"Do you remember Meg?"

"Meg was my-my friend?" He nodded. "She went away. Because…Yes. I remember the-the wood house."

"Cabin. Yeah. Well, after all that, I tried to make it work for a while. But you didn't really want to see me anymore. Now I know what you were doing, why you were always so busy and secretive." He hesitated. "I still want to know one thing. You don't have to answer."

"What?"

"_Why?_ Why do all this, go through all this? For-Well, that doesn't even matter. Why do this to yourself?"

"I-" She bit her lip and stared off to the side. She curled her fingers and pressed her palm tightly to her heart. "Felt." And that was her answer. He couldn't argue with it. This was done.

The door opened. Raoul jumped up and reached for his phone. Christine leaned back.

Erik.

And Lorenzo.

The former gripped the latter by the shoulder, shoving him forward. Lorenzo's hands were tied behind his back; he was blindfolded. His white dress shirt and grey pants were wrinkled, but he seemed lucid and unharmed. Lorenzo stumbled. "Sit," Erik commanded, thrusting him toward the bed. Lorenzo obeyed, sitting on the edge of the covered mattress. Erik ripped off the blindfold.

Lorenzo glared directly at Raoul. "Again?" he angrily asked. "This is the second time I've been tricked into a meeting and then manhandled."

"Sorry," Raoul muttered, shrugging helplessly. "But this was about her. It always was."

"That's not an—"

"There she is," Erik harshly interrupted, gesturing toward where Christine sat. Her eyes were wide, and she was gripping the sides of the wooden chair. "Look at her! Do you still want to harm her?"

"I can't exactly—" Lorenzo studied her. "May I talk to her?" he finally asked.

"Be my guest," Erik replied. "But do not upset her."

"Hello, Christine," Lorenzo began in a kinder, calmer tone, almost like he was talking to a child. "How are you doing?"

"Hi," she shakily replied, crossing her legs. She rubbed her hands together nervously. "You're Loren-zo?"

"Yes. You don't remember me? Even from our visit with Reverend Mansart?"

"A little. But I don't remember most things," she murmured.

Lorenzo's eyes softened, and his shoulders slightly relaxed. "That's fine. You've been through a lot. But you definitely remember feeling the creature die?"

"Yes."

"How do you remember it dying? What happened?"

"It wanted me to let go of it. It said it would make me-" She pointed at her head. "Like this. And then it…um…." She looked at Erik for help.

"Exploded," stated Erik. "It exploded. And took a building down in a final attempt to kill us."

"At the campus," said Lorenzo. "Yes, that was on the local news. They blamed a faulty foundation."

"It said it would be back," said Christine. "But I don't think it can be. I think it's gone."

Lorenzo glanced at Christine and then Erik. "Can I approach her? Will you untie my hands?"

Erik glowered. "You make one suspicious move, and you will no longer have hands."

Raoul cringed. Lorenzo angrily replied, "For God's sake, I'm not going to hurt an innocent girl. I'm not a monster!" Christine nodded at Erik. Erik roughly untied his wrists. Lorenzo stood and brushed himself off. With Erik closely following, he approached and knelt beside her. Raoul nervously leaned forward, not knowing who to fear most in this situation. Lorenzo reached out and placed a hand on her forehead. She closed her eyes. A moment passed. "Do you feel anything else?" Lorenzo asked her. "Good or bad. How do you feel?"

"I feel tired," she murmured, opening her eyes. "And—con-con…."

"Confused?"

"Yes. But Erik is helping remember. Raoul, too."

Lorenzo nodded. "Yes. I think they really care about you. You were very brave to do what you did." He removed his palm from her forehead.

"Does she seem like a threat to you?" Raoul asked, spreading out his hands. "Seriously?"

"No." Lorenzo replied, standing up straight. "Of course not."

"Is anyone else on their way here to harm her?" Erik inquired, his arms folded.

"They're aware that I might need help. But there aren't that many people who know John was killed by a demon. You think we let stuff like that get out to the whole world? In any case, I'll say she was innocent. I'll say the creature is dead. I don't feel that thing in here. This is over."

"How do I know you are telling the truth?" Erik continued. "How do I know you won't call forth a group of idiots to imprison us? Or to perform tests on us?"

"John and I tried to help her," Lorenzo stated. "We had no major plans or motives but to get rid of that thing. Now it's gone. Do either of you think you are anything_ but_ human?" Christine shook her head. Erik glared. "I think you're human. And all I want to do is go home to my friends and family. But, frankly, I'm far more worried about you than her." He pointed at Erik. "What you've done."

"Woah," said Raoul, standing as Erik started to step forward. He turned to Lorenzo. "C'mon. After all this, you're really going to try to hit us with kidnapping charges or something?"

"No," said Lorenzo. "Not that. I can forgive that. But he's done plenty, I'm sure, as the former host."

"Are you going to prove that in a court of law?" Erik asked. "And you think I will remain here, allowing you on your merry way, while I stand trial? You think I will let you get that far? Really? Are you that senseless?"

"No." Lorenzo held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I don't have any proof, Erik. And I don't have the desire. I want to go home and sleep. All I want is a promise that, whatever you were before this, that ends. I want to know that when the creature died—the horror died with it. I want to know the monster died with it. And I may occasionally check up on you. That's what John would want."

"Oh, fantastic," Erik muttered. "Well, I do not promise to stay in one place and await your delightful visits."

"I don't expect you to," said Lorenzo. "And I doubt I'll be back for a very long time. Besides, I have someone here who will help me keep watch." He turned to Christine and gently smiled. "You'll be okay? You'll let someone know if you ever hear the creature again?" She nodded. "You'll make sure he does good things?" Lorenzo continued, gesturing to Erik. "Not bad ones?"

"Yes." She laughed. "Erik will be good!"

Erik rolled his eyes. But Raoul sensed that a danger had passed. He also understood that there was even a practical reason for keeping her alive. Maybe for keeping them both alive. If the creature ever returned, they might be able to hear it. They might be the only ones in the world who would hear it.

"Am I free to go?" asked Lorenzo.

"Do you promise to leave us in peace?" Erik asked.

"Yes. If you promise to be peaceful."

"Then you may leave with Chagny. But, if you ever break that promise, you will have a hell of a lot more to fear than Shadow Creatures."

"Let's get out of here," said Raoul. He knelt by Christine and gave her a quick hug. "I'll see you later, okay? Call me if you need anything."

"Okay. You take care. Thank you." She tightly hugged him back with one arm. He missed her.

As he left, Raoul felt the shadows fall off his shoulders, cobwebs of things that couldn't be and days long past.

"Well, that was intimidating," Lorenzo muttered as they walked into the world. A young couple ran past them, giggling as they shut themselves in one of the rooms. Several grey pigeons landed nearby and began to peck at pieces of popcorn on the sidewalk.

"You're not hurt, right?" Raoul asked.

"No. He scared me to death. Grabbed me and took my phone. Briefly explained the situation. Gave me a very, very graphic description of what he would do to me if I hurt her. Tied my hands. And I went willingly at that point. Not a lot of choices. And—" Lorenzo side-glanced him. "I don't think I'll ever agree to another secret meeting with you. Not if you have friends like that."

"Eh. Friends is really, really,_ really_ pushing it. And I'm sorry. But after you pointed the gun at her, well-"

"It wasn't my best moment. But I'd just watched John die, and I didn't think we had a lot of choices. I still can't believe she's alive. And that Erik managed to keep the creature from overtaking him for all these years. I can't believe her mother was right. But then we didn't know much."

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Raoul hesitantly asked.

Lorenzo shrugged. "She'll get some of her memories back. And—"

"No. I mean, do you think she'll be okay with him?"

"Oh. You're worried. With good reason. But I think…." Lorenzo paused. "You know, I only try to understand most of this chaos. Don't we all? If they stay together, I really hope they find comfort in each other. After so much darkness, I have to believe something good comes out of this. I have to believe John died for something. Peace. Love. Whatever you want to call it."

"I guess so." Raoul climbed into his car and started it. He drove out of the parking lot. "Zenith. I heard you call John that."

Lorenzo scratched his head and chuckled. "You heard that? Well, now I really can't let you live." Raoul sharply glanced at him and nearly hit a fire hydrant. "Kidding! We had code names. It was mostly for fun. John's was Zenith. I'm not giving away mine. But you can probably guess, if you know a little astronomy." Raoul squinted. "Maybe not. Like I said, it was just for fun."

"Right. Fun." They didn't say much else to each other until Raoul arrived back at his apartment, where Lorenzo's car was still parked. "Thanks again," said Raoul.

"Good luck to you, Mr. Chagny. Call me if there's more trouble." They shook hands.

Then Lorenzo left. It was the last time Raoul ever saw him.

* * *

><p>Christine sat at the desk, her hands folded in her lap. She silently stared out the window for a long time after Chagny had left.<p>

Had the boy told her old truths? Had Chagny emphasized how happy they had once been together in their perfect sunshine world? And then reminded her of the terrible horrors of Erik?

Had _he_ been completely stupid to leave them alone together? The thought angered and terrified him, past demons of the un-supernatural kind buzzing in the back of his brain. So he stepped away to find calm. To not yell at her. He had promised not to hurt her anymore. It was the one thing in life he was determined to do, even if it meant burying himself underground.

His hands unclenched. He saw himself in the mirror, a tall black shape. He almost looked like a Shadow Creature. He removed the mask to check on the healing of his face and was disappointed. Would he ever have a nose or distinguishable lips? A bit more flesh over his gaunt cheeks? There was surgery….

He'd always know that the creature would bring about some sort of horror in the operating room. Surgery would have been pointless. But now—now it wouldn't be. He did not have to be handsome. He simply wanted to look like less of a freak. If he was going to accompany her back into the world. If Chagny hadn't turned her against _him._ His brain overheated with pure panic.

"Erik?" She came up behind him, her voice soothing. "Are you okay?"

"I am fine, darling." He wanted to be fine. He really, really did. He tied the mask back on.

She tilted her head. "You don't have to…worry. I think Lorenzo is nice. He'll be okay."

"I am not worried about him."

"Good." She folded her arms. "Are we going?"

"Do you want me to take you home?" He turned around.

"Yes. We'll both go there?"

"Yes."

She gave him a nervous smile, and he stepped into command again. They gathered up their few belongings, clothing and the computer. He left a tip for housekeeping. As evening arrived, they climbed into the car and departed. When they neared her home, Christine leaned forward and stared at their surroundings. The campus buildings. The nearby neighborhoods. "Is it familiar?" he asked.

"A little." Sometimes she would close her eyes. As though processing all the information were too much.

He parked, and they walked toward her unit. Her pace became slower. Her hands trembled. It had only been days since that horrific night. It seemed like an eternity. He slowly opened the door and entered first. Quiet. The faint smell of old food and dust and fabric softener. He turned on the light. She stepped into the living room and grabbed the doorframe. He stayed near.

Christine looked over the first room, her fingers curling. She walked forward and stared at her bedroom and bathroom. He followed. The bedding was rumpled after he had leapt up in a panic. There was a dent in the wall from where his head had struck the plaster. But, otherwise, all was normal. Standing back, he let her comb through the drawers. She took out clothes and ran her hands over the fabric. She pulled out pictures and keepsakes. A necklace with a cross. A little china doll in a blue dress holding sunflowers. A photo of her smiling father. Then she went to her closet and did the same. School yearbooks. A scrapbook with torn edges. And the boxes on the floor—those especially caught her interest. Her father's belongings.

When he was certain that she would be okay, he returned to her kitchen and living room. He tidied them up a bit and then took a slow seat on her sofa. Out of place. And yet—he would be out of place anywhere now. He had no home, save for a dark space he had carved out for himself in the far North. A shudder traveled through his cold body, as he was reminded of where he might be right now. How he might be.

"Look at all the books," she said, breaking into his thoughts. She came into the living room and pointed at the shelf beneath her coffee table. Her brow was wrinkled.

He glanced in that direction. "Yes. You were very invested in your research. On my behalf." She took a seat beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Is your home familiar?"

"It's like a-a-a pu - All mixed up."

"A puzzle. That's understandable." She frowned as she looked toward the books again. "What is wrong?"

"Erik, I talked to Raoul," she began.

He could no longer hold back, although he kept his voice calm. "Did that boy say something to upset you? Did he tell you something about me that you'd forgotten? Ask me. I won't lie to you." He prepared for an inquisition. Yes, he'd kidnapped her last winter. After killing three people, no less. Yes, he'd nearly destroyed the life of her female friend. He was ready for all of it. "What did that—what did he say?"

"Not much about you. Why?" She squinted up at him.

"Oh. I had thought—Never mind. Never mind." She softly giggled. "What?"

"It's just…we are both so scared," she replied.

His first instinct was to deny it. Instead, he murmured, "I suppose so."

Christine leaned forward and grabbed a textbook on child psychology from beneath the table. She flipped through it. At first, he thought she was searching for something specific. But it became clear that she was only trying to make sense of the words. Any of them. "Erik." She took a breath and then quickly said, "I can't read. It took that. Raoul knows. You should, too."

His fingers brushed against her arm. "I suspected. I knew."

"You did?"

"Yes. There were signs." He paused, unsure if he was lying to her when he said, "You will relearn quickly."

She looked down. "Raoul said I should see a doctor. You said that, too."

"And I have also said that you will never have to go anywhere that you do not want to go. But I would like you to have an examination. In case there is internal bleeding or physical issues. You had a monster explode inside of you. I doubt they will find anything. But it would be unimaginable to lose you now, especially to something that might have been prevented."

"I want you to be happy. I-"

"I don't want you to see a doctor merely to improve my mood! It is for your well-being. Why are you so opposed?"

"It's hard to say." She meant this literally. "_It_ showed me a…." She grunted in frustration. "Paper? Pencil?"

He leaned forward and grabbed those items for her off the table. Biting her lip in determination, Christine began to draw a crude image on a notebook. A sad girl in a room by herself. With only a bed and a table. Bars on the window.

"A prison?" She shook her head and then pointed to her temple. "An institution. Ah. It showed you a mental institution. And you were trapped there? Darling, it was trying to terrify you. That is all." She drew something else. A square with music notes inside of it. Then she wrote _Erik _in the box. And a—smiling face? "I don't understand," he said, his heart warmed by the knowledge that she could still write his name. "I am trapped in a music box? That does sound quite horrifying, actually. The same repetitive melody playing over and over while a plastic figurine spins around?"

She playfully scowled at him. "Erik's music. You had a, um—" She made a circle with both her hands. This was unfortunately not his best game. "You were…fa-famous," she finally explained. "You made famous music. I was—trapped here. I had the creature in me. Forever."

"Oh. Like another dimension?" He had read his share of science fiction and was slightly intrigued. "How cruelly clever. And absurd. But, Christine, the creature was torturing you with lies. You will not be left in any sort of hospital, especially not a psychiatric facility. Not even overnight. You understand? They will run their tests, and then I will take you home."

She shakily nodded. "I know." She then pointed at the drawing and, with intensity, said, "But you _can_ do…other things now. Good things. I want you to! Music. Boat with the…. Ugh. No words. You can see new things. That's why I did this. But—but it's still…." She sighed. "To be like this. When you are so…." She squeezed her eyes shut. "So—_smart._" She quickly added, "It's not your…fault, Erik. I don't regret it. But it's hard. Oh! Boat with the sail." She laughed at herself.

"Sailboat?" he dumbly asked, her words settling in his brain.

"You did that, too. You seemed happy. I want you to be."

"And _that_ is all why you will not go to a doctor? You think you will be forgotten? Because I will be sailing?"

"I will go to a doctor," she murmured.

"All of that is-" He stared at her for a long moment. Then he got up so suddenly that she gave a cry of surprise. He removed his mask and placed it on the table. He got down onto his knees at the side of the couch, beside her legs, and clasped her right hand with both of his. She stared down, bewildered.

"I try to stay calm in all this," he whispered, kissing her fingers. "You have been through hell, and I try to stay composed so as not to distress you with my own insanity. Yet the worries you voiced tonight, the doubts that the vile creature put into your poor mind, Christine - do you know how outrageously ecstatic you make me? Do you? I still feel like a monster even with_ it_ gone. Until you look at me like I am something else."

"Erik…." Tears formed in her eyes. She gently withdrew her hands and motioned to the spot next to her. "Up here. Come back here with me."

He rose and obeyed. She took him into her arms, and he buried his face into her neck and shoulder. "Christine, I am insane with love," he murmured into her ear. "I am still positively ill with it. I restrain myself so as not to frighten you again. But perhaps you misunderstand. So here is your answer, if you think I have vast aspirations now that I can live in this odd world. I will live in it. With _you._ I can only do that with you by my side. I don't know how otherwise. If you had died in my arms, I would have happily let that building crush me. That is how mad I am with love for you. They will commit me to an asylum long before they commit you, my dear. So there is the terrifying answer to your fears."

"Erik. It's not…terrifying." Her hand came up to cup the back of his skull, and she kissed the top of his head.

"You must not live for another second thinking you will be forgotten. Or abandoned." His jealousy and paranoia of earlier burned the back of his mind. "_We_ cannot let that ghastly thing win. Not now, Christine."

"Erik." Sighing, he let her push him backwards with her body. Then she was leaning onto his chest, placing him in the deliciously most vulnerable position of his life. Her tears dripped onto his face. She kissed his lips and cheeks and neck. The rough stretch of skin over a hole where he hoped a nose would grow. Her soft, warm hands found the scabbed, dry flesh of his stomach and protruding ribs. She discovered the damage of forty-one years. And still she pinned him and kissed him until he couldn't breathe. He nuzzled his ugly face into her collar bone. He pressed his cold mouth to her warm neck and felt her pulse. His hands were wrapped in her hair. He wished to be suffocated with affection, smothered with it until his heart stopped beating. And she obliged with kisses and caresses until they were exhausted.

She lay half on top of him. He stared at the ceiling. With his shirt untucked and wrinkled, his body weakened and pressed into the cushions by a wonderful weight. He murmured, "I am afraid I will soon awaken in some dark hellhole, decomposing and hallucinating and—"

"Halluc-?"

"Imagining. All of this." He ran both his hands down her back.

"This is real," she whispered into his ear. His heart fluttered. Christine leaned over, still pressed against him, and picked up the drawing. She studied it. "And this is not real," she said with a swallow. "It's not. But - you should still make lots of music."

"As should you, darling. You will do many things." She smiled and yawned. It was only eight, but Christine still felt the effects of her battle. "Are you fine to sleep here?" he asked. "It does not scare you?"

"No. I'm okay." She scooted off of him, blushing slightly. "Are you?"

"Of course." He reluctantly rose and gave her a final kiss on the forehead. He put on the mask. "If you are tired, ready yourself for bed. I am going to retrieve my computer from the car, and I will be back."

He stepped outside feeling so very odd. In a delightful way. It was so strange to exist like this, like a dream. Her body had warmed his flesh, and the evening air cooled him again. He hummed softly as he headed down the steps and to the dark parking lot. He opened the trunk and grabbed the laptop, along with a few other items.

He felt someone come up behind him. Soft footsteps. Instant adrenaline. His hand reflexively went toward his inner jacket pocket. He was half a second away from whirling around and-

A woman's hesitant voice. "Excuse me? Sir? I'm sorry to bother you. But I'm really lost. Do you know if someone named Christine Daae lives in these apartments?"

His hand fell away from his pocket. A slow, uneasy breath escaped his lips.

"Do you know?" the woman asked again. "I'm worried about her."

He slowly turned and stared down at the intruder. Their eyes locked together. The woman loudly gasped. For a second, he thought she would faint. But she held herself up, her hand covering her gaping mouth and her dark eyes widening. She took several steps backward, her fashionable black boots clicking against the asphalt.

He spun back around and left her there. He left her in the dark without a word.


	42. Chapter 42

**So Chapter 42, as I suspected would happen, got too long. Therefore, there will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this, so we'll end on 44. I hope the beginning of this one isn't too anticlimactic, but it was the only way I could see this all realistically happening. Thank you all!**

**Read and Review!**

He refused to tell Christine that night. But she must have noticed the tension in his shoulders and the glint in his eyes—or the muttering beneath his breath. When he came back inside, she was standing near her bedroom wearing a lovely turquoise nightgown that fell to her calves. A pink toothbrush stuck out of her hand. She asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied, the beautiful sight of her calming him. She tilted her head, and he noted how long her hair had grown. He sighed and added, "I will tell you tomorrow. I do not want to ruin the evening."

"Okay. But tomorrow," she said.

He lay beside her before she slept, her head resting on his shoulder, just as they had been that terrible night. Maybe she felt the déjà vu; her fingers were wrapped into his shirt. She stared forward, unblinking at times. "Are you sure you are fine to sleep here?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her breathing finally became steady, and her grip on him relaxed. It was only eight thirty, and he gently rose, taking care not to disturb her. He spent some time on the computer, searching for next steps. Places to go. Ways to help her. Books that could reteach her to read. Music for himself. The simplest ways to obtain some type of identification without completely putting himself on the grid.

He stepped onto her porch for fresh night air. No sign of the intruder. Perhaps the woman would go away. He should have taken care of that earlier with a simple phone call. _Christine is fine. Leave us alone now._

"Erik?!"

He ran back into the apartment so quickly that he broke a hinge on the door. Christine's hands were clenched at her sides, and her face was white. He had a first terrible thought. What if that apartment were cursed? "Christine, look at me. Show me your eyes!" She did so. But they were blue and filled with tears. "What is wrong?" he asked, breathing heavily.

She only stared at him, unable to say.

"A nightmare? A memory?"

"I forgot when I was."

"You mean where?" he inquired.

"No. When. I didn't know…what was…was real now. You were gone. So I thought…it was…."

"I had only stepped out to - Never mind. I will tell you what is real. You are safe." He returned to bed with her. She didn't remember the ordeal in the morning. But he knew that, at least for the foreseeable future, Christine could not be left alone after darkness fell. Her dreams and broken memories meshed together, confusing and terrifying her.

In the morning, after making her a bowl of cereal, he took a slow seat beside her at the kitchen table. She said, "It is tomorrow." Then stared at him expectantly.

"Ah. Well, I can see your short-term memory is intact." He placed her phone on the table. "This is yours. You left it here when you ran away. I took it for safekeeping."

"Thank you." She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. "There are calls?"

"Six calls," he said. "Two from Regina. She was your employer. You have missed some work."

"The library," she murmured. "And I can't read!"

"You can tell her that you've had an emergency. And then decide if you wish to continue there."

"The other four?"

He accessed her voice mail and put the phone up to her ear. He let her listen to several panicked messages from Madeleine. The final one said, _"My home literally shook tonight. I need to know what's happened to you. Please call me. Please! Let me know you're okay!"_

The message was dated on the night that the creature had perished. Perhaps Madeleine had always possessed a subtle connection to the thing, no matter how far she ran.

"Do you remember this…person?" he asked. "You initiated contact. To help you in your search."

"Um."

"If you do not remember her, that is fine. Hopefully, she will go away."

Christine blinked. "Go away?"

"She has come here. She was in your parking lot last night, attempting to make contact with you."

Christine hesitated. "No. If I see her, I could remember. Yes. I should."

"Or you could simply forget her."

"Erik?" Christine closed her eyes, and he knew she was trying to recall old memories. "Maddy. Yes. She told me things. She…." Christine gasped and opened her eyes. "She's the one…helped find the, um- I couldn't have…without her. She helped! Erik, I have to see her! Can you tell her why-" Christine pointed at her head. "Why I'm like this." He couldn't suppress the groan. "Erik?"

"Christine, my love, do you recall whom Madeleine is in all this? Why she is involved in the first place?" She stared at him. "I gave her quite a fright last night. Simply by looking at her! She thinks she is afraid of me? Hah! She gave_ it_ to me! Not the other way around!"

Finally, Christine murmured, "Oh. _Oh!_ Oh…."

"There you go."

Christine put her hand on his. "Erik. No words. But-but I know why you…don't want her. I know. It's okay. But she did help. She's upset. Can I call her?"

"You may call whomever you like. I am not the dictator of your phone." He started to stand.

"Will you dial?" She held it up to him.

"How can I really resist anything you ask of me?" he muttered. He did so and walked away. But was unable to ignore the conversation.

"Maddy?" A long pause. He could faintly hear the woman panicking on the other end. Christine continued, "Yes. I'm okay. Um….My head is…. Well. I killed it. It's gone! The thing. But my head is mixed. Yes. He's here." A pause." I think forever. Unless we…move. No. I'm okay. Um….No words. Wait." She held the phone from her ear. "I'm con-con-confusing her, Erik. Can she come? To see I'm okay?"

"Why? Does she think I am torturing you?"

"Torturing?" Christine asked a bit loudly.

"What?!" he heard Madeleine exclaim on the other side. "Are you okay?! Are you hurt?"

"For the love of - Do whatever you want." _He _waved his hand to the side.

"Erik. Will you be okay? I don't have to."

"No. Let us get this resolved quickly. Then she will go away."

Speaking into the phone, Christine continued, "You can come. Um…" She ran outside to look at her apartment number. "Erik? That is one and seven, right?"

"Yes. Seventeen." He couldn't be angry at her, but he was highly irritated with this entire situation. Why must the past creep up on him when he was so desperately trying to have a future?

An hour later, they met on Christine's front porch and thankfully stayed out there, under a bright mid-morning sun. He opened a window slightly to hear them. Because - well, why the hell shouldn't he be allowed to listen to them? They embraced, and Madeleine gazed with deep concern as Christine attempted to explain the situation. Madeleine frequently glance toward the front door. Christine finally said, "Yes. He is there. But he won't hurt you."

"You're still…friends with him?"

"No," said Christine. Before his heart could plunge, she continued, "We're in love! So more than friends." He found her bluntness utterly precious, especially as Madeleine's eyes widened another few millimeters.

So he left them alone; the conversation occurring out there would not threaten everything he had gained. Madeleine knew nothing of him. Christine knew everything. When he glanced outside twenty minutes later, they were sitting on the porch and playing a game with a deck of cards. A memory game, matching the cards together by color. Three of Diamonds with Three of Hearts. King of Spades with King of Clubs. Christine was staring down with deep determination. Madeleine watched her. Madeleine did care about her. And that was the only reason he did not chase the woman from the property.

The door opened, and Christine entered. "Bathroom," she stated, touching his arm as she passed. She hadn't completely shut the front door and, with the broken hinge, it blew open by a few inches. As he stood to the side, Madeleine slowly poked her head into the living room. She looked around, still unable to see him. Despite the heat, she hugged her arms to her chest. The breeze caught the door again, blowing it open halfway. And now they could see each other. She softly gasped. Rolling his eyes, he started to turn and leave. He had taken five long steps.

"I hate it," she said as he walked away. "When doors do that. Move on their own. You never know…."

He continued to go. Christine's apartment was small, but she did have a bedroom.

Madeleine spoke again, a tremble in her voice. "When my, um, my husband's father got dementia, we would play memory games…things like that. Crosswords. It helped him stay sharper until he passed away. I thought it could help her." _He_ didn't say anything, but he did stop walking. "Did it really die inside her mind?"

"Yes." His first spoken word to her.

A long pause. "How'd it get there?"

"You think I intentionally passed it along to her?" he sharply asked.

"No! I'm just trying to understand. I was wondering if it was something I told her."

"You directed her to Mansart." His voice was low and steady, nearly a monotone. "She discovered her mother's letter, which concluded that Christine might be able to kill the creature if it possessed her. She figured out how to take_ it_ into herself. She certainly did not ask my permission, and I never would have given it to her. As you might imagine, it was a horrific ordeal. But she did it. The angel killed the devil. Though not without injury to her mind, as you can see. The end." He started to leave again. He had done his part. He'd spared Christine the effort of explaining further.

"I can't believe it's really dead," Madeleine whispered. "I felt it, too. I felt it die. Like a weight was lifted off me. But I can't believe it." She hesitated and then said his name as though it burned her tongue. "Erik."

"_What?"_

Christine came out and looked between them with wide eyes.

"I know you hate me. I-"

"_Hate_ you? No. Hating you would require me to use precious brain space on you. It would require effort. I don't think of you at all."

"Irene was a better mother than I ever would have been."

"I won't argue with that."

"I was terrified—"

"What the hell are you attempting to accomplish?" Finally, he turned halfway to look at her. Her jaw was clenched, and her eyes held a glint of fear as she was again forced to stare at his masked face. Still, she didn't turn away. "You feel guilty? Is that it? Do not bother! No need for that useless sentiment. I don't think of you. So do not think of me any longer." Her lip quivered. "You are here _only_ to talk to Christine. Do so."

"Maddy." Christine looked at her. "Let's go outside." She led Madeleine back onto the porch and shut the door behind them. God help him, but he went back to that stupid window, making certain they could not see him.

As they knelt at their card game, atop one of Christine's old quilts, Madeleine softly asked, "Is he kind to you?"

"Yes," said Christine, picking up a card and studying it. "I love him. But I was…scared, too. When I did not…under…. Um."

"Understand?"

"Yes. Understand it all."

"You stopped being scared?"

"No," said Christine. "Not of the thing. Still really scary. But there were more…imp-impo-"

"Important?"

"Yes. More important things than scared. Too much…to lose. Too sad to lose Erik."

"I see."

Oh! Look. A match." Christine held up her cards. Two black tens.

"Very good." Madeleine gave her a sad half smile. They talked of insignificant matters after that. Madeleine's family, friends, and life. Christine had less to say. Perhaps she couldn't remember.

Finally, Madeleine stood and brushed off her grey slacks. "I guess I'd better go soon. I just wanted to know you were okay."

"I am okay. Thank you for helping."

"Sure. Thank you for-for, well, killing it. I'm not sure that's even sunken in yet. All those years, knowing it was out there."

"I know," said Christine. They briefly hugged, and the woman departed.

Christine stepped back inside. He didn't try to hide that he'd been listening. She smiled, shook her head, and embraced him. The door opened suddenly. Madeleine again. He glared. Christine looked up with slight alarm.

"I want you to know that…" Madeleine glanced down and wrung her hands. She looked back up as though more certain. "That you are both welcome to come to my home. In Florida." She swallowed. "I told my husband. Before I left. I told him that I'd had a, um, a baby when I was very young. He doesn't know the rest; I don't think he needs to. And he said that you were welcome. And you are. So. I just wanted to extend the invitation. And I wanted you to know that…that I am happy for you both. I'm really happy. I'm-" Neither he nor Christine said a word. "Well. Anyway. That's all. Goodbye." She quickly left, closing the door behind her with a click.

Her words hung in the air. He greatly feared that Christine would try to talk him into accepting all of that mess. And he did not want to think about it at this moment. Perhaps never. But, bless her, she did not. She let Madeleine's words pass over them quietly, storing them on a shelf for a much more distant day. Standing in front of him, taking both his hands, Christine finally said, "Erik, we are here. We have today!"

"What?" he murmured, attempting to gather his bearings.

"We have today."

And he somehow understood. It was all over. For nearly a year, they had lived off of desperation and horror, never a normal or peaceful moment. And, here they were, standing in her apartment in the middle of the day. With nothing left to overcome except…living.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"Well." She stared at her living room. "I have more things to look at. Try to remember. I need to…fix…my head."

"Do you have a doctor? Or?" All the little facts that he didn't know about the beautiful woman standing in front of him - there were many of them.

"I don't know," she said with a sad laugh. "I forget doctors."

"We will find you one. A better one than you could likely see with your student insurance." Her head drooped. "I will stay as close you like, understand? I will even accompany you into the examining room—although you may find that rather uncomfortable."

She giggled. "Not as un—comf—table as you."

"You are likely right."

"If they can't help?"

"Then we will simply determine how to go forward. Books. Games. Educational materials. You may have an outside tutor or therapist, if that is what you want. Or I will teach you. Whatever you want."

"I'll think," she said.

"You have time." He gestured to the kitchen. "We will also need to address the matter of your bare cupboards. Have you really survived off sweetened cereal and cookies for this long? I am surprised that your teeth have not rotted out of your head." She gave him a sheepish smile. "Then again, who am I to judge? I have spent the last forty years not eating at all. It is still a waste of time." He stared at the brightness of the afternoon. "So we will go to the store tonight."

"Yes." She pointed at her cellphone. "Or pizza! You call. It comes."

"Fascinating, my dear." There was an utter strangeness in normalcy.

She continued to search through her belongings, creating three piles. He finally interpreted them as things she remembered, things she did not, and things she wasn't sure about. He ordered several books for her online that were written for foreigners learning English. He did not want to insult her by buying children's books.

And then the store.

It should have been simple. But nothing really was now, was it? She remembered very little about preferred foods, brands, or navigating aisles. Christine couldn't go inside alone. Wearing the black mask, he walked along with her through the bright, air-conditioned rows, trying to avoid people. Of course, that was impossible. And he constantly heard-

"What the hell?"

"That's creepy."

"Probably in costume. Like they go to parks and pretend to swordfight or whatever. My cousin is into that."

Hundreds of irritatingly colorful boxes and packages also assaulted his senses. Utterly exasperated and ready to break more than a few necks, _he _handed her money and stepped aside while she went to the register. He thought it was best for everyone's safety. But his poor darling was utterly lost. It took her at least a minute to understand that she needed to put her groceries on the conveyor belt. Thankfully, no one was behind her. As Christine thrust her money out toward the cashier, the middle-aged man replied, "You can keep two of those twenties." Christine stared blankly at him, continuing to hold out the bills. "You can keep those," he said again. "Okay?"

"Please," she said.

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Please take it." Now, she was completely paralyzed with confusion.

So _he_ had to go out there. The man started and immediately raised both hands into the air, as though he were in a robbery. "Oh, God. You can take the cash in the register. Please! I have three kids. You can have it!"

"Can I really?" he asked, tilting his head. "Just like that?"

"_Erik!"_

With a sigh, he paid properly and grabbed the items. And got them both the hell out of there before someone called the cops. She was in tears by the time they reached the car. "Do not cry," he said. "I was jesting. I could not resist. Please do not cry."

"Not crying cause of you. I am….Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"

"Frustrated?" She rapidly bobbed her head up and down. He let her cry into his shoulder, stroking her hair. "All right. You will be fine. I am sorry. I did not know that…Well, we will reteach you all of this. And - we are going to start resolving my little problem right now."

They went to a pharmacy. That night, he purchased a large white surgical mask, one that covered his mouth and lack of nose, along with a pair of sunglasses. He removed his black mask and put the new items on for her in the car. He glanced at himself in the mirror and chuckled. "Now I look utterly ridiculous. But less like a criminal, right?"

"You don't look ri-rid-" She shook her head. "You look sick. Like you don't feel well." She pulled back the stretchy mask and gave him a compassionate kiss on the cheek.

Well, that was what he'd been going for. No one would call the police if he looked like he had six months to live. From online, he ordered a flesh-colored rubber mask with eyeholes. It resembled the face of an ordinary man from a distance. He now had options until he could obtain a realistic prosthetic. Or perhaps surgery, when he felt like being carved into and sliced up and sewn up. When she could be left by herself while he enjoyed several stays at the hospital.

That day might never come.

He wore the black mask for evening strolls and the times when he wanted to hide in the night. Such as when he obtained a falsified birth certificate and social security card from a less reputable gentleman. He wore the surgical mask in sensitive areas. The bank. Convenience stories with probable guns behind the counters. And the flesh-colored face for when he wanted to blend in, which was rarely. They primarily went out in the evenings and avoided masses of people.

But at least he could take her out and give her a touch of normalcy in those first days. For sunshine, she would go to the porch, lying on her back and flipping through magazines with pictures. With a glass of iced tea or plate of cookies. He liked to watch her in the daytime, to see a healthy glow return to her skin. He loved her simple pastel sundresses that fell loosely over her arms and legs. He could think about her now without the thing mocking him.

And the nights—the nights were wonderful and difficult. She always wanted him with her. She allowed him to kiss her and touch her. She returned the affections without hesitation. But he was still…careful. Because, many nights, Christine would awaken confused. Usually, he would remind her of where and when they were, that everything was fine now. Then she would go back to sleep.

But then there was the hellish night when she woke up afraid of him. She thought it was winter and that he was tormenting Megan and Chagny. Christine shot up from the bed and ran from him. He chased her around the living room, past the couch and coffee table, attempting to calm her down and not lose his own mind. He wanted to shake her. "Stop this! What are you doing? Are you mad? Stop this!"

She was backed up against her kitchen wall, yelling at him nonsensically and holding a fork in the air. "Meg! And you….Raoul. My classes. And no Meg. And you won't…give her. And I—have to go. Find her. And him. Somewhere." She sobbed. "Somewhere in the trees! In the trees!"

"What is wrong with you? Are you-" He released a cry of frustration as she hunched up against the wall like a frightened feline. He had to be the sane one, and it was not a role that he was created for. He backed away from her, hands in the air. Calmly, he said, "I will not let you leave this house by yourself. It is past midnight, and you cannot be out there alone. But if you want to call Megan right now and make sure that she is well, then do so. If you want to call Chagny, then do so. I would rather he retrieve you than have you running outside all by yourself." And he meant that—although the boy would be completely disturbed by all this. He slid the phone on the counter toward her. "Call whomever you want. I will not stop you."

She grabbed her phone and stared at it, her thumb hovering over the keys. She looked back up at him. Then down again. Up. Down. She collapsed to her knees in tears. "I'm sorry," she said over and over. He felt such fear and relief that he gripped the counter to hold himself up. "I forgot again. I _hate_ sleeping! I never know where I wake up. When I wake up. I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"May I approach you?" he whispered.

"_Yes!"_

Very slowly, he walked toward her. Even more slowly, he got down onto his knees beside her. He pried the fork from her hand and tossed it way. Still blue eyes. Still his Christine. Her arms hooked around his neck, and he took her back to bed, clutching her against his hammering heart. He promised he wasn't angry. "Are you going to make me go away now?" she whimpered.

"Of course not. You could stab me with a hundred forks, and I will not send you away. What do a few more scars and holes matter for Erik's poor body? At least the holes will be in delightful patterns of three. Lots of symmetrical possibilities, don't you think?" She shook with simultaneous laughter and tears. "You could really do with a new silverware set, though. Or maybe a polishing? I at least want to be attacked with clean utensils. Darling, at least give me that dignity." He made her laugh and cry until she was exhausted.

Once she slept, he wept for about two minutes at her bedside. A simple release of tension. The incident had brought back many unwelcome memories.

But that was by far the worst night. And she never remembered it. Still, he was careful with her, despite his own painful desires. Even when she reached for him and touched parts of him that had never felt human hands. And crawled atop him and kissed his cold lips until he was weak and stupid. He hadn't asked for more, not even silently. When she would gently withdraw and cuddle up next to him, he let it be. Perhaps she was waiting for him to take the lead. Perhaps she did not want to. And he desperately wanted to be what she needed, whatever that might be. He didn't want to shatter her. And he shushed the voices in his head that reminded him of how ugly he still was.

The doctor's appointment finally arrived. He had carefully explained her condition over the phone, lying when necessary, so that they were prepared. It was an outpatient facility, which gave her less reason to worry. He drove her there in the morning and dropped her at the front. He lifted the flesh-colored mask to give her a kiss. "You will be fine," he said, seeing fear in her eyes. "Remember. Tell them you were in an accident. You cannot tell them the truth."

"Then I would be locked up," she muttered.

"You will never be locked up," he replied. "I would bomb down walls to get to you." She looked like she believed him. "Do you want me to go with you?" He forced the question out.

"I will be okay." She left the car. Taking a deep breath, she opened the glass door and slowly made her way into the brick building. He sat and looked over articles regarding the real estate market. Not that he would take her away from her home so soon, but it was an eventual possibility.

In an hour, she came back outside with several papers in hand. "Did all go well?" he asked.

"Yeah. Okay. Blood. Heart. Asked things. Hard to talk. Erik. I…um…signed something. So they could talk to you? They can call you?"

"That would be for the best."

Her condition must have concerned them as he received a phone call early the next morning. Some older woman who went by Dr. Sandy. She established who he was, stating that, "Yours was the only name she would give us. She was insistent. I just wanted to make sure she had help. Otherwise there are programs-"

"She has that kind of assistance," he interrupted. "She is well cared for. The question is, can you people help her?"

"I don't know," she replied, a note of uncertainty entering her stern voice. "I'm giving her a referral for an MRI exam. We'll see if we that picks up anything abnormal. Sometimes memory comes back on its own after accidents, especially with cognitive therapy. And time. Sometimes it doesn't. But that doesn't mean all is lost." Papers were shuffled. "She had some trouble filling out the forms. Would you be able to help? Allergies to medication? Family history?"

"Mail them to me. I will go through them with her."

"Okay. It's also important to make sure that she has your contact information with her at all times. That way, if she ever gets lost, the police will know to call you. We have cases where people get confused and wander off and-"

"She will not wander off. She is not like that. But I will make sure that the entire world knows to contact me."

"Okay. Good. There was one other thing I still didn't understand. After talking to her. About why, if she'd been in some kind of horrible car accident, no one had helped her immediately after? Why wasn't she given medical attention? Where are her records?"

He had prepared for this. "We were traveling in a foreign country that was in turmoil. At the scene of the accident, we received basic medical care. But then we had to leave immediately for our own safety. Civil war, you understand? Utter chaos. Threats to foreigners. And I did not realize the extent of her head injury until later. We had very limited options at the time."

"My Gosh. You were both in the car accident? She didn't say that."

"Oh, yes." Might as well create a whole elaborate history for them. It would be the story they'd tell the world. "And it also seared off my face." He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table as he casually made the statement.

A pause. "Are you serious?"

"No. I made that up merely to amuse you." His sarcasm caused the woman to clam up, so he continued, "I am hoping to obtain a high-quality prosthetic device."

"Do you need further medical care?"

"No. I am just very ugly."

"You - Um. I…see. Well. You'll want to make an appointment with a maxillofacial prosthodontist. There should be several within the region. They can do an initial examination and take you from there." Another pause. "Goodness. That must have been very traumatic for you both. No wonder she's anxious."

"You have no idea."

People believed the lie easily. It explained why they were both damaged. Outside of a bomb, what else could explain it? The lie sometimes brought pity. But, as long as pity did not come from Christine, he could deal with it. He did not tolerate curiosity. One too many questions, and he would shut them up. If he was having a good day—"Leave us alone." On a bad day, he'd either threaten or tell them to do something to themselves that was physically impossible. In any case, they ceased with their interrogation.

As he suspected would happen, the scans found little wrong with her mind. Perhaps slightly decreased activity in certain regions of her brain but nothing that could be corrected with surgery or medicine. Only therapy and time. She seemed a little glum, after realizing that there would be no miracle solution. "But you are well," he told her on the way home. "You are not injured in any horrible way. I spent many hours certain you were going to die. And you are here! You are alive, and that is magnificent."

"I know. I'll be okay." He completed a fast U-turn that jolted her to the side. "What are you doing?"

"Replacing something," he replied.

"What?"

"A new violin. I destroyed the old one."

"Why?"

"It does not matter. Now I need to find another."

"Yes, you do! Yay!" That brightened her mood. He didn't know why he hadn't done this earlier. Music was the second most important thing in his life, he supposed. And the first most important thing – _person _had kept his mind busy. The owner of the instrument store was initially suspicious of his flesh-colored mask. Once _he'd _demonstrated his knowledge of the violin, though, the transaction went smoothly. He wasn't forced to steal it.

He took her out one night to the park and played for her beneath the stars and a half-moon. His healed, intact fingers danced across the strings, and he felt nearly whole. He requested that she sing a short and simple piece. Something to give her hope. And when she forgot the words and simply hummed along, that was fine, too. No criticism left his lips. There was a light in her eyes that he sometimes feared would fade away.

But Christine seemed to be slowly recovering. She was undeniably affectionate, curling up next to him with one of the books he'd bought, her head on his shoulder or lap. He always put a pillow down so that his bony body didn't dig into her skull. She continuously picked up more words and had some memories of her childhood. Going to a zoo with her father. A trip to see _Peter Pan_ on stage with her first grade class. Once she had these memories, she would describe them to him in detail, attempting to recreate them. He gave her his full attention.

These were the best days of his life by far.

For her, each day seemed a little better than the last.

Until—all the students came back for the fall semester.


	43. Chapter 43

Only an Epilogue to go. A big thanks to all who stopped to review last time. I hope many of you will stop to leave a comment on this last chapter and the Epilogue. I also went back and did a reread, correcting minor things and making small edits. If anyone is planning to go back and reread, please let me know if you see any inconsistencies. There's a short note on my profile regarding future plans. Enjoy!

**Read and Review!**

The students returned.

All he observed was more irritating loud music in the area - more parties and drunken laughter and a youth that he'd never experienced. His late teens and early twenties were spent learning the fine arts of drug trafficking and arms dealing. So it all seemed trivial, and he felt above it. With Christine at his side, he could ignore the minor irritations.

But perhaps he should have noted the subtle changes in her. She wanted to go out less in the evenings, preferring to stay at his side on the sofa, her nose in a book. As he was a recluse, this was quite fine with him. When they were out, she would speak less, reverting to gestures until he finally said, "Christine, you must at least try to talk. That is the only way you will improve."

She glanced from side to side. "Emb…emba…."

"Embarrassing?"

"Yes. I talk at home. To you."

"You are walking around with an ugly man in a mask, and your speaking is what embarrasses you?"

She turned red. "No, Erik! No! That's not-"

"Never mind. It is fine. It is fine." He let it go. Perhaps he knew the feeling of humiliation far too well to protest. He was not going to give her some inane elementary school lecture about 'not caring what other people think.' Still, he made sure that they continued to work through her speech issues at home. The problem went deeper than that, though. While he had no connection to this world around them, Christine had once been a part of it. And she could not be now.

They were walking past a block of shops one Saturday evening, hand in hand. He wore the flesh-colored mask and, despite the throngs of people around them, was in a generally calm mood. If anyone noticed the false face, they usually assumed he was a performance artist. "Anything you want?" he asked. "Clothing?"

She smiled. "No, thank you. I have clothes."

"I simply love to shower you with gifts, my dear." That was really all he wanted to do with his useless money. She never desired much, so he would buy her little surprises. A silver necklace with a treble clef. Flowery perfumes.

"Ice cream?"

"What?" He looked at her.

She softly laughed and pointed to the shop. "Have you had ice cream?"

"No."

"We can get that."

"That is all you want?" he asked with a chuckle, heading for a short line with teens and kids in it.

"Take it home," she said. "So you can eat with no mask."

"You are going to make Erik eat that sticky, sweet substance?"

"Yes." She grinned at him. How could he resist?

When they were three people away from the counter, a girl said her name. "Christine!"

Her grip tightened on his hand as she turned to look. Just a curly-haired brunette, waving at her. He stepped back and turned his head slightly to the side.

"Hi Christine!"

Christine gave an uncertain, "Hello."

"How are you!? How was your summer?"

It was clear that Christine didn't recognize her. "Fine," she replied.

"Cool. I was pretty much working at my parent's bakery the whole time. So much fun." She rolled her eyes. "What classes are you taking? Maybe we'll have some together again."

"Um. No classes."

"What?" The girl's smile disappeared. "You're not coming back this semester?"

"I don't….No."

The girl tilted her head. "Why? Are you okay?"

"I am…accident." Christine looked at him. That was his cue to be her voice.

Without giving the girl a good look at him, he softly said, "She has been hurt in a car accident. A head injury. So she does not recognize you."

"Oh!" The girl glanced at him, more for his strange voice than appearance, and then turned back to Christine. "I'm so sorry! Christine. Oh. I'm Amber. We were in the music program together. We've had some classes together."

"Hi. Amber. Um."

"I'm so sorry that happened!"

"Thank you."

"Well. I hope you get better. I hope you come back." Christine didn't respond. "You take care." The girl left. Christine slowly stepped beside him again. She took a shuddery breath. He made sure that she got her ice cream, a chocolate flavor with marshmallows. She ate only a few bites and then said he could have the rest. He put the cold cup in the freezer when they got home. Perhaps the mood had passed. By the following day, she seemed fine, asking him to help her with arithmetic.

But perhaps she was not so fine.

A weekend later, Christine came up to him after talking on her phone. To Chagny. The boy occasionally called to check on her health. She stated, "Erik. Meg is coming for visit. She and Raoul want to take me out. To the…mall. To eat. And buy things. You want to come?"

His heart clenched. "Darling, I don't think that would be the best of situations. With Megan _and_ Chagny? The crowds? The lights?"

"It's okay. But I want to go."

"Will you be fine?"

"Yes," she said, firmly, her head high in the air. "I will be fine. I want to go."

"Then you should go," he said after a moment. "That would perhaps be…good for you." He did not overrun her with words of caution. He tried to trust this and let it be.

She wore a knee-length black skirt and sky blue blouse that had ruffles along the collar. A gold heart necklace that he'd given her. Black sandals that revealed toes painted pink. She hugged him before she left. "I love you!"

Seeing her and feeling her, it was hard to let her go. It would be his first time separated from her in a while. There was a frantic tugging in his heart and stomach, a reminder of the past paranoia. Ignoring it, he settled into look at more plans for a future home. As the minutes passed, he thought he was doing rather well. No one had died. No objects were broken. He anticipated that she would return hours later, tired but happy. And sit beside him. And kiss his ugly face, remind him that he was no longer alone.

But—his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. "Yes?" he answered with a touch of suspicion.

A man spoke. "Hello. Is this Erik? Erik…Dien—"

"Why?"

"This is the Clover Mall. The mall security office. I'm here with a Christine Daae, according to her license. She was found panicking and disoriented in one of the stores. She was pretty upset. I can't get her to talk to me. But she had your number on her, with a note saying to contact you in case of an emergency. Uh. Do you know who I'm talkin' about? Blonde girl."

He was already in the goddamned car, wearing the surgical mask and the sunglasses. "Keep her there," he said through clenched teeth.

By the time he arrived at the security office, ignoring the stares of people who likely thought he had some deadly virus, Chagny and Megan were sitting beside her on ugly plastic chairs. He called Chagny's phone from a distance, watching as the boy answered. "Get Megan out of there," he growled. He had no idea if the poor girl would recognize him and was not about to find out. Without a protest, the boy hopped up and ushered Megan into a nearby clothing store. They argued for a moment, probably about leaving Christine alone, but Megan finally went with him.

_He_ entered the office. The security officer, a short and bald man, stood and spoke. "Her friends found her. But I'd already called you and told her to stay put." Red-eyed, Christine rose and silently came to _his_ side, her gaze on the floor. Her mouth was drawn into a tight line. "Everything okay here?" the man asked her. "You recognize him?" She nodded.

"She has panic attacks," _he_ explained, trying to stay outwardly calm. "That is all. As you can see, I am unwell. So I allowed her to come with her friends. Obviously, a _very _stupid idea."

"Well," said the officer, eyeing the surgical mask uncomfortably. "I hope she feels better. Maybe make sure she has better supervision next time, if she has these kinds of, um, issues."

"Oh, I will." He curtly thanked the officer and led her away.

"I'm sorry again, Christine," Chagny said as they marched forward. _He _kept his back facing Megan and the boy. "I don't know what happened!"

"I'm sorry, too," said Megan. "You were right there! And then you weren't!"

"What the hell happened?"_ he_ snapped at Chagny in a whisper. They neared the exit.

Chagny hurried to keep up. "She and Meg went into a store together while I went to get my watch fixed. And Christine got kind of lost. We don't know what happened. But she's okay. Meg feels terrible. So—"

"I trusted you with her!"

"My fault," Christine stated, her first spoken words.

He still glared at Chagny. "How could you let her become lost? You do not leave her in the middle of crowds! Are you stupid?!"

"We didn't!" the boy retorted. "We never would have done that. She just—"

"Obviously you did _that_!"

"My fault!" Christine shouted, staring up at him. "_My_ fault!"

"We are going," _he _muttered with disgust. "Right now."

"I'm sorry," said Christine to Chagny. "My fault."

"I hope you feel better," murmured the boy.

As they walked away,_ he_ heard Megan ask, "Who was that?"

"Her uncle," Chagny lied. "He came to take care of her after the accident."

"I didn't even know she had an uncle."

_For the love of-_

"What happened?"_ he_ asked Christine, once they were in the car.

"Nothing." She stared out the window, clutching her purse in her lap.

"Was it Chagny's fault? Megan's? Tell me the truth; I will not harm them."

"Not their fault. I did it! Okay? It's nothing. I did it."

"It is not nothing! I let you go because I thought it would make you happy! Does it not?" She didn't respond. "No. You will not be silent. You want the police to pick you up? So that I can go to the station, _in my goddamned mask_, and try to retrieve you before they lock you up somewhere? Is that what you want?"

"Stop it, Erik!"

"I will not stop. What the hell is this?"

"Stop it!" She turned to scowl at him. "I know. I know I was bad. Okay? I'll never go out again! I'll stay inside forever! _Okay?!"_

Overheating with anger, he clutched the wheel silently. He didn't speak to her again until they were home. She ran into the bedroom. He stood in the doorway and stated, "Tell me what happened. Now."

"Nothing!"

"Nothing?" He marched in with his arms crossed and leaned over her. He lowered his voice. "While I sincerely doubt there is any evidence tying me to last winter, I do not know for sure. Do you want to gamble with that by drawing attention to yourself? Do you want Megan to recognize me? I am probably facing the death penalty for all that, Christine. If anyone ever knew…." With an angry sigh, he started to turn around and leave here there.

"Erik." She blanched and stared at him with wide eyes. The anger faded from her features, and he saw genuine regret. "I'm sorry. I…I forgot that. The winter. Erik, I forgot. Not because of head…injury. But…because you're so good to me. I forgot."

"It's lovely of you to forget," he murmured, shoulders falling. "I do not think anyone else will want to."

"Erik, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "Well. It is not really your responsibility to protect me from that anyway. From the justice system."

She sat up straight. "But I want to! I have to! You…protect me. I'll protect you. Erik. I'm very sorry!" Her voice was heartbreakingly sincere.

He calmed himself, realizing he sounded more like an angry father than what he wanted to be to her. "Christine, will you explain why this happened?"

She looked down, rubbing her hands together. "I walked away. From Meg. So that…I could see if…. If I would…?"

"If you would be fine on your own?" He had started to suspect this.

"Yes." Her head drooped.

"I see."

"I was lost so fast. Like that." She placed her palms at the side of her head. "And then everything spins. Everything…became a mess. I didn't know. I wasn't okay by myself."

"It has only been weeks since your trauma."

"I know. Sorry. It was dumb. Meg talked about things. And I didn't know. I didn't remember. And she…she and Raoul feel sorry for me. So I wanted to….Well…."

"I know."

"I wanted to be okay. To do it and tell you later. And you would be proud. And…."

"Christine—"

"Are you mad?"

"No," he softly replied, taking a seat on the bed. "I merely need help in understanding exactly what you want. I try to do what I think will please you. I thought going today would. I am terrified of not being able to make you happy, you know? I think it is the only thing in the world I still fear." He paused. "Do you want to speak to someone else? A professional. I admit that I am not the best at this. I perhaps do not say the right things—"

"Tell pro—fesh—nal I had a demon in me? No." The bed squeaked as she crawled over to him. Her arms folded around him from behind. She pressed her cheek against his back. "You say good things. Right things. You make me happy, Erik. Without you-" She paused. "I would be…very…not good. You make me keeping trying. I love you. But I…?" She looked around the bedroom.

"But you what?" he warily asked.

"I like to go out. And sun. And day."

"You want me to go with you? Or perhaps help you practice navigation? You could leave. And call me the second you needed assistance. You need not gain that skill back without help."

"I want both those. But-but maybe not here."

"What?"

"People knew me. And I see a person, and they say my-my name. But I don't know them. And then they…look mad or sad at me. I want…to be somewhere new. To get better."

He looked at her in surprise. "You want to leave here?"

"Everyone goes fast by me. I'm stuck. I want quiet. So I can fix this. Time. Quiet."

"You want to go somewhere quiet?"

"Yes. If we can. If you want. If you'll go."

"Of course I will go," he replied. "I tried to fit here for you. Unsuccessfully. Literally. My head nearly touches your ceilings." She laughed. "I did not want to take you away from everything you knew."

"I don't know it. Everyone…thinks I know it. But I don't. I dis…disa…."

"Disappoint?'

"Disappoint them."

"You never disappoint," he murmured.

"We'll have a new place. It will be ours. Our heads will both fit in it! You'll be safer." His earlier words had spooked her. She nuzzled her face into his neck. "Erik, you have to be safe."

He felt a rush of excitement in his bloodstream. "Christine, my love. Will you give me some time to make it perfect for you? Comfortable rooms where you can continue your studies. A music room. A spacious kitchen. New furniture. I can also obtain a better prosthetic, so that I can go out a bit more. I have delayed it because, well, having some impudent doctor up in my awful face is not exactly appealing. But I must. For us, I must. Will you give me time?"

"Yes!" She grinned. "We have time!"

It was what he had secretly wanted. A fresh start. New lives for both of them. Because neither of them would ever be the same.

While it would take some time to rearrange everything, to give her what she deserved, that didn't mean he couldn't offer her a brief escape. He arranged for a two-week getaway at a house in the mountains. It was a sort of isolated bed and breakfast, but he told the owners that they preferred privacy to sitting around a breakfast table making chitchat. He made certain that no one else would be on the property, save for an occasional check-in by the owners. Woods and a lake surrounded the property. Wildlife. Quiet.

The house was two stories. The exterior was painted a light blue with white trim around the doors and windows, styled in a Victorian manner. It had steep, uneven black roofs and a white porch out front. The inside contained polished paneling and higher ceilings. In the living area, there was a fireplace and a piano. The bedroom was a bit over-decorated for his tastes, with enough throw pillows to smother a small village, but she would enjoy the plushness. He didn't tell her where they were going, simply said that she must pack for a long trip. In the very early morning, they started the five hour drive there. She slept much of the way. "Wake up," he said as they approached.

She sat up. "Where are we?"

"Abandoning civilization. Well, at least the 'people' part of it. Not the plumbing and electricity."

Her face lit up when she saw the house. He'd already picked up the key. He took her inside, and the wide smile on her face made his heart ache with happiness. "A piano!" she exclaimed. "Erik! You can play!" She ran through the home with a carefreeness that he'd dearly missed. "Look at the trees! And there's a swing! And—a-outside bed?"

"Hammock, darling."

After exploring the property, she returned to the house and fell back onto a king-sized sleigh bed that was decorated in royal reds and blues. She'd exhausted herself and required a twenty minute nap. He used the time to check the security of the property. Since their meeting with Lorenzo, he'd never had the feeling of being followed or watched. But he would always keep an eye out for unwelcome strangers.

Christine was able to walk in the sunlight without worrying about traffic or getting lost or running into people whom she was supposed to remember. It was literally a breath of fresh air. He felt relief, too, away from stares and questions. Although he did say, "Just because we are here does not mean you will stop your studies. In fact, this environment should allow you to concentrate."

"You're a strict teacher," she replied.

"See? You have learned what _strict _means." She stuck her tongue out. "Charming."

But he was not going to stop pushing her forward. She would not be illiterate. He did not want her to look back twenty years from now and remember this as the year she lost everything. She would resent herself. And she might resent him.

They went for evening walks on the quiet forest trails. They sat by the lake reading or playing memory, word, and trivia games. He made her meals with the ingredients he'd brought. A savory chicken marsala. Pastas with creamy sauces. He had prepared elaborate dinners when he'd taken her to that apartment months ago, but she'd been too terrified to eat. So it was gratifying to watch her clean her plate and request seconds. He let her help cook when she asked to. "Never knew cooking," she stated. "Dad never taught. I don't think." She paused. "If you never ate, how do you know?"

"I was bored one day. And taught myself." The creature had taught him the proper way to interlace poison into food, untraceable and undetectable. He didn't share that part with her.

On their third evening there, she was reading aloud in the living area. She hadn't done that in a while, and there was a confidence in her voice. "The six cats went outside."

"That sounds foreboding," he teased. He was working on the sketches for their new home. He'd found a house on a large piece of property, but he wanted it entirely remodeled. He would meet with a contractor soon.

"The cats…saw a dog," she continued.

"I told you this would not end well."

"_Erik!"_

"Go on. I apologize for interrupting." He really wasn't sorry at all.

"No. I'll read quiet," she retorted.

"No. Erik wants to hear what happened to the six cats. Or will it be five cats now?"

She put the book aside. "And I want to hear the piano!"

"Do you?" He slowly stood. Perhaps he'd wanted to distract her. "It has been a while. A long time. I might be simply awful at it." She gave him a look. "Well, perhaps mediocre."

"Mediocre." She tested out the word on her tongue. "That means…medium. You will be better than medium, Erik."

"I don't know…."

She curled up in a soft armchair and waited. Hell, if the new house didn't work out, perhaps he would consider putting in a bid on this place. She loved it. And he loved anything that she loved.

Well, within limits.

But he tolerated anything that she loved.

Admittedly, he was better than mediocre. Each song brought back memories of a different time. A few he'd learned in childhood, under Irene's care. Some in Europe. Many during his time in the Middle East, when he'd hidden himself away with his instruments, bored with Alexander's single-minded schemes to amass more power. He played the piano for her long into the evening. And into the night. He expected her to be sleeping when he turned around to look at her. He'd just played a slow song, nearly a lullaby. But she was sitting up, wide awake, watching him.

With a pleasant shiver, he turned to resume playing. Christine was so silent when she came up behind him that he jumped when her hand grabbed his arm. She leaned down to kiss him, and his hand skimmed against her waist. And the look in her eyes…She drew back and pressed her cheek against his. "Let's go to bed," she whispered into his ear. He could feel her beating heart. He inhaled the scent of strawberry shampoo.

There were nights when they had approached this moment. And he knew she had taken precautions with the help of her doctor. To avoid something that simply could not happen soon. Perhaps never. He let her lead him into the bedroom, surrounded by the smells of vegetation and polished wood. It was very dark but not quite blinding. She left his side for a few minutes. He took a slow seat on the bed and lay down, still dressed in a shirt and black trousers. He would not assume yet; he would not humiliate himself by wanting too much. He felt alone until she returned and quickly slipped under the covers.

He reached out to touch her, more for reassurance than anything. She came to him and placed a hand on his chest. The bedding was cool, and her…bare back was warm. She was not wearing any clothing. "Christine?"

She laughed and shyly hid her face in his shoulder. "Erik," she whispered. "What is the word? Seduce! Seducing you."

A sound that was something between a chuckle, a choke, and a moan escaped the back of his throat. As though he could even resist. As though he didn't walk devastatingly thin lines between desire and guilt and the fear of harming her every night. An apology would sit on the tip of his tongue every time his hand wandered too far.

There was nothing to be done except to look into her eyes. And see lucidity and certainty and pleading. A plea to love her. He told her how much he did. He did tell her that he was sorry again. Sorry for being this hideous, strange thing that had intruded into her life and done all this to her. And who still desired even more. She said, with more anger than he was used to hearing in her pretty voice, "Don't."

"I don't want to hurt you anymore," he whispered into her neck, his pulse racing as they approached the edge.

"You won't," she assured him, her hand running through the tiny, soft hairs on his head. "You can't. I love you. I want you."

So he didn't stop her hands and mouth as they gently traveled over his torso. He let her unbutton his shirt and slowly undress him, caressing his battered flesh as she did so. He ran his cold hands over her soft skin. He acquiesced when she guided his fingers to where she desired them. Christine refused to let him go; he hoped she never would. Utter bliss and relief and wholeness. She let it be dark that first time, so he didn't have to think too much of his ugliness. Yet he could still see her. All of her. The sensations were too overwhelming and wonderful to hold on for very long. He collapsed into her scent and warmth. Her arms wrapped around him as their weights shifted. Everything about her made him feel more like a man, a human being. And he dreamt of the things he wanted to do with her when he was a more experienced lover. She clung to him for the rest of the night, and he could feel every inch of her body pressed against him.

How he loved being completely human at that moment, despite all its difficulties and weaknesses. He wouldn't have traded places with even the most powerful, most invulnerable version of his previous self. He loved feeling fatigued and sated and unable to move. He loved being free.

He sensed her waking early in the morning, before 5 AM. Some type of bird squawked outside. She sat up. And looked toward him. If she panicked or voiced regret, he would shatter. Her hand touched his ribcage, slightly tickling him. "Are you well?" he finally asked.

"Yes." He heard a smile in her voice.

"Do you know where we are?" _When we are. Who I am. What I am. What I was…._

"Yes!" She turned toward him. Her toe brushed against his knee. "Are you okay?"

"I think so."

"Loud bird?"

"Yes. Shall we eat him for breakfast?"

"No. He is singing for us." She touched his face. And his chest. Fingertips on his sunken stomach. Lower. "It's so dark. But I can feel you. Mm. Erik." When she said things like that, he nearly died. She scooted atop him and helped him find his way from below. Leaning over him, she touched his face and kissed a tear. Her hands gripped his narrow shoulders for balance. She whispered lovely words into his ear as he squeezed his eyes shut in ecstasy.

He was going to find a ring for her soon. Perhaps it would still be some time until, well...she wanted to. But—he wanted her to know that, for him, there was only one possible way forward.

Two mornings later, two blissful nights later, he sat squarely in the sun with her for the first time. He wore the rubber mask. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, displaying scars from his ordeal. But scars were preferable to open wounds. She leaned back against him when he sat on the blanket, a book in her lap. She looked up at him and blinked. "Erik. You are in the day." And then, with a quiver in her voice, added, "We should not leave here."

He smiled. "Are you very happy here?"

"More than very happy. No words to say." She placed a quick kiss to his chin.

A year ago, he would have thought nothing of taking her, willing or unwilling, and hiding her away in these mountains. All his. It hurt his heart to reply, "We eventually have to go, darling." She practically pouted. "But I will soon have our house ready. And land. But perhaps not quite this isolated. Because—" He sighed. "Because you should have more. You should not relegate yourself to…." He paused. "I do not want you to regret limiting yourself after all this horror. Even if you are frustrated. I am always frustrated! I want to strangle most people. For their ignorance. And their stares. And their-"

"And they don't know," she said. "We are the only ones who know. What is out there. Raoul does. He wants to forget. I can never forget."

"That is why you feel isolated? Because you cannot share the experience with them?"

"That. And my head. It's hard."

"You are right," he stated with a shrug. "They will never know. No one will ever understand what it was like to share a body with that vile creature. To have it screaming in your head. To have it nearly destroy you from the inside out. And now, the memories. The nightmares. It is our burden. I never wanted it to be yours…." She took his hand in solidarity, as though to say she wanted to share it with him. "You may not be the same as you were. But there is still some place for you out there. On a stage. A classroom. Somewhere, I am sure."

"You, too. Have a place," she replied. "But I really like it here." She stretched out her legs. They had a bit of a tan now. He was still as pale as ever.

"Surely there are more entertaining activities that hiding in the mountains with your grouchy Erik," he teased.

"I love grouchy mountains and the Erik. I…oops." She giggled.

"That sounds like the name of a terrible rock band." Living near campus, he'd been exposed to far too much music, if one could call it that.

"Mixed up words are better than no words!" she retorted.

"That is not necessarily true." He started to give her an example involving amputations, but perhaps that was too gruesome. Before he could come up with something less offensive, the bushes moved. He crouched and prepared to jump in front of her. Who the hell was going to bother them now? Frightened, Christine leaned back against him.

Grey, white, and black fur. Dark eyes. Pointed nose. Whiskers. A raccoon. Out in the daytime. He hoped it wasn't rabid.

"Look," she said, smiling at it. "He has a black mask like you. He can be in our…club. See? We are not alone."

"Wonderful. We have a trash-scavenging animal to add to our long list of friends. An exclusive club, indeed." It didn't seem scared of them as it sniffed along the ground in search of food. Perhaps the animal was preferable to people.

Yet they had to go back. If she felt this way in five or ten years, perhaps they could become a family of raccoons and recluses. But he could not let her make the final decision out of fear.

On the last night there, as he was playing the piano, she stared at the floor with little tears in her eyes. He came to sit beside her on the sofa. "We will have another place soon. Within months, darling. You will be fine."

"But I woke up less. I can talk better. I found my way around the forest."

It was true. She had improved. There were still times when she became confused at night or would zone out during the day, as though falling into a deep daydream. But her eyes held clarity. Her sentences came together more quickly. He suspected that this was because she felt less pressure here. Less misunderstood.

Because everyone saw her as so frail. And they would never know how strong she had been, how brave.

He gathered her into his arms. "Let us collect some belongings. Return to your apartment for a few days. Or a hotel even, if your apartment makes you ill. Perhaps it does. And simply…simply get you back in the world for a week. And if you are miserable, we will find another hideaway. We will go back and forth until our house is ready. Yes?"

She nodded and took a shaky breath. "Okay, Erik. I believe you. I trust you." He kissed her forehead, took her to bed, and they made love there one last time.

They left the following evening. As they were packing the car, she glanced back at the woods. So did he. A pair of yellow eyes stared back. Some sort of animal, _hopefully._ "Can we have a pet?"

"What kind of pet?" he asked. "Certainly not a raccoon. Or anything else that leaves a trail of garbage behind it."

"No. I don't want to lock up a…a…um…a wild animal. But a cat or a dog?"

That didn't sound so terrible. "Perhaps."

"Maybe both!"

"Let us try one. Cats take care of themselves. They are much more independent."

"But dogs lick you."

"….So a cat, then."

He wore the black mask to keep himself hidden. He'd only planned to stop once for gas. But she was hungry and wanted something from the convenience store. He started to dig out the surgical mask, reminding himself to make that damned appointment so he could look like less of a freak. She touched his arm. "I will go in and pay," she said.

He sharply glanced at her. "Are you certain?"

She shrugged and gave him a lopsided, closed-lipped smile. "I will try."

"All right," he said, swallowing. "Here is money. If you need me, call out."

He watched her carefully as she went inside. He cringed as she waved the twenty around; some deviant could swipe it right out of her fingers. Finished filling the car, he approached the transparent sliding doors and waited. With a candy bar and bag of chips firmly in hand, she reached the counter and shakily held out the twenty. The cashier took it with a smile and gave her change. Christine began to count through the bills, making sure the amount was correct. He had taught her to do this so that no one would take advantage of her. A man behind her muttered, "C'mon lady. You're holding up the line. I don't have all night!"

It was startling how fast _he_ could want to choke someone again. His blood ran hot, and his heart pounded. But the discomfort on her face! How could he not want to kill anyone who upset her, especially when she was so fragile and frightened? She stopped counting and quickly gathered everything into her hands, dropping several dollar bills on the floor in the process. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Sorry!" The idiot rolled his eyes.

The cashier, an older woman, said, "You're fine, dear. It's okay. Please take your time."

Christine looked at her with surprise and smiled. _Kindness._ She put all her money into her purse and stepped aside.

"_Finally!"_ exclaimed the idiot.

_He _walked inside the store, under the bright lights, wearing the black mask. Christine glanced up. The cashier and customers all stared at him, frozen, wondering what he was going to do. For several seconds, he glared down at the man. And then he left a hundred dollars for the female cashier on the counter. The woman was too shocked to say anything.

He and Christine left together.

"You did well," he told her. "I am proud of you."

She took his hand and squeezed it tightly. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"We're going to be okay."


	44. Epilogue

_**So here is the Epilogue. It may not answer all of your questions. But I hope you find the ending fulfilling and sweet, while kind of keeping within the tone of the story. **_

_**I will dearly miss this story and these characters. It's hard to pull myself away from the "Accompaniment" world and start a new writing project. It's so great to hear that you all have enjoyed these characters, too. **_

_**Thank you all! Read and Review!**_

_Months later…_

It was early, and she wasn't awake yet.

He did this about once a week. He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and stared into the mirror without his false face.

His good false face - made of plastic, acrylic, and silicone. The mask gave him a nose and rounded cheekbones, along with the appearance of eyes that were not sunken in. It gave him a full upper lip.

Admittedly, most of the clinical staff were not the worst of the human race. They had realized his defects were congenital, so he had never bothered with the car accident story. Most of them had seen their share of gore. Gunshot wounds that maimed and blinded. Facial cancers where little could be saved. So he was treated more like a science or art project and less like a freak. There was one older woman with bright red hair, some sort of medical assistant, who continuously called him, "Sweetie." He wanted to inform her of all his crimes just to make her shut up. But—

But he stayed quiet.

They had touched him and measured him, then coated his horrible face with a material used to make the mold. There had been multiple fittings. At some points, it had taken all of his willpower to not run out of the examining room or injure someone. Only the knowledge that Christine was sitting nearby, patiently reading a book, kept him calm.

Now he had a false face that he attached with a special glue. The mask would probably have to be replaced every several years, but it was still the best prosthetic he'd ever owned. People still gave him second glances in public, but they moved on quickly. Only children would sometimes state, "His face is funny."

Still, he came into the bathroom once a week to look for improvements in his real face. "Why won't this fix itself?" he growled to himself.

He'd wanted to propose to her without wearing any mask. But not with the image that still stared back at him in the mirror.

"Fix yourself, you ugly thing!" he snapped at his reflection.

He hadn't closed the door all the way that spring morning. So she woke up and caught him muttering to himself in the mirror. He saw her behind him and grappled for the false face. "What are you doing?" she asked, blinking in the lights.

"Considering a career in modeling." She tilted her head. "Seeing if I look like a human being," he admitted.

"You look like a human to me," she replied, stepping beside him. She wrapped her lavender robe more tightly around her torso. Sometimes the high ceilings in the house made it colder; he'd have to correct that.

"There is still surgery," he said. "I have several recommendations. We could go to New York. And just - do this."

"If that makes you happy, then you should."

"I simply wanted to look good for you."

"Erik." Her lip curved upward. "I want to be smart for you." She pointed to her head. "But we're both getting better."

"You are smart!" he exclaimed.

"I am healing. But I still have times where I can't…see clearly. Or do certain things. You know what I mean."

He did. Her speech had returned, little by little. She no longer forgot words to the point where it embarrassed her. Christine had relearned many facts about the world and recovered some memories. A picture of her mother and her father sat prominently on their mantelpiece, and she frequently and fondly spoke of them. She could hold conversations and understand puns, along with other intricacies of the English language. And her beautiful voice! He heard that often now. In their spacious music room, they practiced her singing at least three times a week. He loved the clarity in her eyes when she could focus on the music.

But her navigation skills were poor. She could not leave the house by herself without becoming confused. A passing car or change in the weather would throw her off. Driving certainly wasn't in her near future. She would still fade out at times, so he didn't leave her alone for long. When he did need to go out for brief periods, he made sure that the stove was off and that nothing required her immediate attention.

They had agreed that she would begin online courses and at least complete an interdisciplinary degree. That would give her a foundation for the future. Christine also decided that, even if she hadn't received her degree in music therapy, she could volunteer within the field. She could sing for people in nursing homes, hospitals, and even institutions. It made her feel very good, she said, to see them smile at the sound of her voice. He offered her much more - to put her on real stages with large, adoring audiences. But, for now, she only wanted tranquility and simplicity.

And that was fine with him.

He stared at her in the bathroom mirror, admiring her.

"We'll keep healing," she said, stroking his hand. "But I love your face no matter what, Erik."

"You tolerate it," he corrected. "You don't mind it."

"No. It was the first thing I…I recog-recognized when I came back from-"

"Hell?"

"When I came back that night, I didn't know anything. My head was empty. Until your face. And then I remembered you. So I love it. I love you." She gently tugged on his hand. "It's early. You should come back to bed."

And he'd been so stupid, he realized. Holding off on proposing until he looked better. He'd considered doing it at Christmastime, their first Christmas together. The new house hadn't been ready yet, so they'd spent the holiday quietly in the mountains. He'd paid the owners of the property to decorate the home for the season. They had a large, green tree with shining silver and gold ornamental balls. Red stockings with white fluff had been strung across the fireplace. Snow globes on the table. A wreath with crimson berries on the door. Candy canes, frosted cookies, and other treats available in the kitchen. Eggnog in the refrigerator.

His last memory of celebrating Christmas was Irene putting up a droopy little tree and gifting him with board games and new shirts. She had tried to make it nice—until the thing zapped out all the lights and ruined the day.

So this scene in the mountains seemed a bit over the top to him. But Christine covered her mouth with both hands upon seeing it. She softly gasped.

He'd given her an early gift. A fluffy Siamese kitten with a tan body and nearly black face, a red ribbon loosely tied on his neck, trotted out of the kitchen. Christine broke down into tears.

"What is wrong?" he'd asked, panicking a little. "Do you want another type of cat? Do you not like that one?"

She'd picked up the kitten, buried her face into its fur, and continued to sob. Then she laughed. "I'm just so happy," she'd replied between sniffles. "Thank you, Erik! This is perfect!"

So he'd done well. But he hadn't been able to take the damned mask off and propose.

They'd moved into the new house several months later. Red brick and two stories. Five bedrooms. Arched windows. Pointed roofs with gables. White pillars near the entryway. The ends of the home curved slightly into a semi-circle, like two arms encircling the property and deeming it all _his._ A back porch for both sunshine and privacy. They'd slowly begun adding furniture. A couple of black leather sofas. A grand piano, of course. Cushioned breakfast stools. Shelves where she could put her prized knickknacks.

And even in that small paradise, he'd held off proposing, waiting for his damned face to heal.

After their conversation in the bathroom, he couldn't wait any longer. One evening, after the warmest day of the year so far, he brought her into the music room. The large windows gave them a view of an orange sunset. He sat her down on their plush cream-colored sofa. He would often play the piano while she napped there. Christine brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Are you going to play?" she asked.

"No. Well, yes. Perhaps later. But I wished to….Well. You do not have to say 'yes' yet." He was terrible at this. "I hope you will not say 'no.'" A strangled laugh escaped his thin lips. "But I simply wanted to give you something. Because…because I love you so dearly that I will go mad if I do not…do this now."

"Erik?" She leaned forward. Her eyes widened.

He took a black velvet box from his pocket and opened it. A simple gold ring with a little diamond. After taking it and slipping it onto her finger, Christine nearly strangled him with a tight embrace. "I thought you were waiting for me to be better. And that's why you didn't," she admitted.

"What? No! I was waiting for myself to be better." He gestured to his face.

"Erik! That's so-"

"I know. But you know, I—"

"I will marry you!" She pressed her lips to his cheek and his neck. Grinning, she drew back. "That is what you were going to ask me, right?"

"Of course. Yes. I just…I couldn't handle you saying 'no.'" He felt like a ridiculous coward. But she kissed his fears away.

There were some days, like that one, when everything was so perfect that he nearly forgot the rest of his life. It was as though he'd been born less than a year ago.

And then there were still days, well….Several nights after he'd proposed, they went to dinner at a seafood restaurant. A darker place with a lit up lobster tank and anchors and fishing nets decorating the walls. The false face allowed him to eat comfortably. He still reserved private tables and avoided crowded restaurants, but there'd been no incidents. As they left the restaurant, a warm wind picked up, blowing her hair and sundress. He steadied his hat and mask as he led her toward the car.

Christine's arms dropped to her sides, and she stared forward with wide, terrified eyes.

"What is wrong?" he asked. Her mouth fell open, but she didn't respond. "Darling, what on earth is the matter?"

Christine stumbled forward like a zombie, her eyes focused. Even when he touched her arm, she didn't react to him.

"Christine, look at me. What is wrong?" But then he heard them. _Chimes._ He immediately knew they were not of a supernatural nature. Yet she thought- "Christine. It is not what you think. Wind chimes. That is all." But she couldn't hear him. She nearly walked into oncoming traffic. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him as an SUV barreled by. He led her toward the sound, needing her to understand. They were dangling from the roof of an adjoining antique store. Silver cylinders tinkling in the wind. "Darling, look. This is it. This is all you hear." He touched them, making them louder. She cringed. He stilled them so that they quieted.

She blinked. "Oh!" A soft sob. "Erik. I am so sorry. I thought - I was….Oh, Erik…." He caught her before she fainted and carried her to the car. She remained conscious in his arms, staring up at him with a sadness that hurt his chest.

"Don't be sorry. You are just fine. It was understandable." His heart beat slowed. Christine was quiet as he drove her home. He made her a cup of hot tea, and she stared out the window. Her ring sparkled in the dim lighting. The kitten hopped up beside her, and Christine absentmindedly stroked his fur.

"Are you well?" he asked, taking a seat beside his lovely…fiancée. How peaceful it was to think of that.

"Yeah." She sipped her tea.

"You must not think on this evening too much."

"I won't. I'm okay." She scratched the kitten beneath his chin, her eyes a little distant. "It's just….When I had my…what I thought was my sickness in high school. Well, my dad became really over careful with me. He was worried all the time. He'd call the school and my friends' houses to make sure I was okay. I wanted to be…indep…independent."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Do you think that Erik does the same? Am I overbearing? Darling, you nearly walked in front of a car. I could not-"

"No, no. No, Erik. You did right. It's not that. I just…it's hard because I wanted to be…independent all those years. I tried so hard to be. And now, after all that, I can't completely be. It's not possible."

"You will continue to get better. And then perhaps you can be more independent."

She looked down and bit her bottom lip. "I don't think so. I'll be better. I can talk and read, and I'll be okay. But I'm starting to accept that I'll never be...I'll need someone to watch over me most of the time. For when I lose my grip on what's real. And I could be like this forever."

"We do not know that yet. And, if that is so, you will have someone," he replied. "And I am beyond delighted to be that individual. I want to spend every minute with you. How is that for overbearing?" His heart was heavy, but he kept his voice light. His words were true.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "I know, Erik. I love you so much. Sometimes I still feel like I hold you back a little." Before he could protest, she continued, "I know you don't see it like that. But - Well. I do want the best for you. Even if you just want to go on a hike in the mountains. Anything like that, where you'd have to leave for a while."

He hesitated as he stroked her hair. Because while he didn't give a damn about hiking, there was a somewhat distressing conversation that he needed to have with her. "Christine."

"What's wrong?" She raised her head.

"It is nothing," he said. "I mean, I do not want to upset you."

"Tell me. Do you want to go somewhere? You should." Her fingers brushed against his cheek. "You spent so many years unable to enjoy anything. You should enjoy everything!"

"No. It is not that. If I go anywhere interesting, you will be by my side. That is the only way I will enjoy traveling the world." He gathered her hands into his and kissed them. Hesitantly, he continued, "I plan and hope to live a very long time. I never thought I'd say that. But as long as you are here, I wish to live forever. Yet I do want to have a plan for you in case of - Not even something horribly tragic. Any sort of emergency where I might be called away. If my past were to creep up on me. I would want you to have a safe place. I would not want you to go somewhere that you did not wish to be."

"I know," she murmured. "I don't want to think about it."

"I know-"

"But I have. I've thought about where I could go. Like if you want to get surgery and have to be gone for a few weeks." She hesitated and glanced down. "You won't like the answer."

He softly laughed. "Chagny? I had already thought of him. He would-"

"No, Erik." She smiled. "He is dating someone. He has an…um…internship. He sounded good when we last talked. Happier. He's doing well. And I am not his responsibility."

"Who, then?"

"Maddy." He inwardly cringed. They still talked on the phone, sometimes once a week. In fact, Christine had just told her about the engagement. "If she wants to. She's invited me to her house many times. Both of us."

He abruptly stood, his hands behind his back. "I see."

"It doesn't have to be her. But I don't know many other people. So."

"I simply do not trust her with you." _She might abandon you._

"She's changed, Erik," Christine said, also standing. "People can change, right?"

He flinched. "That is not fair."

"It doesn't have to be her," she said. "But not poor Raoul. He needs to be free to move on."

He sighed and nodded. She was right. There weren't many options. Not Megan. They didn't talk often now, as Christine was worried about his safety. Not other coworkers and friends and relatives; she wasn't close enough to them. Not Lorenzo—too far away and still not trustworthy.

She lay with her back against his bare chest that night, her hair tickling his skin. One of his arms was curled around her. In the gentle afterglow, he finally forced himself to say, "You may take her up on a visit. And we will see."

She turned her head toward him. "Will you come?"

"I will go with you to Florida, but I will not be her guest. I will not see her, but I will be near. Is that fair?"

She kissed him. "That is fair. Thank you."

Two months later, he took her down there. It was hot and unbearably sticky, and his mask felt itchy against his flesh. Still, he tucked himself away in a cool, dark hotel room and worked on his compositions. Christine spent parts of the sunny days with Maddy. And then returned to him for the nights and evenings. They would walk along the sandy beaches, watching the waves. And people making fools of themselves as they attempted to surf. She gathered sea shells.

"Is everything well?" he asked her. "With them?"

"Yes. They're both nice. Peter is funny. He can cook pretty well. And they have these great dogs! Cocker Spaniels. Maddy has a pretty garden; maybe we could have one back home. But, yes, it's going well."

"That is…good." He didn't know if he was pleased or disappointed.

"Can I go shopping with Maddy tomorrow? I promise I won't get lost."

"Yes. Of course you may. I know shopping with Erik is not the most exciting of occasions."

She laughed and nudged him with her shoulder. "All you want to buy is black for you and yellow and pink for me!"

"Yes. Well, that is how it must be."

"Next time, you get yellow and pink clothes. I get black!" She grinned at him. "And tomorrow—you and I will go to Disney World!" The look of horror on his face made her laugh. "Just kidding, Erik."

"Hysterical." Half the creatures at that amusement park would not survive his visit, he was sure. Still, her happiness delighted him. And despite the circumstances, he enjoyed the trip. She seemed to do well in an unfamiliar location, which would bode well for future travel. He did want to take her to Europe eventually, tour the old castles with her. That was something they could both enjoy.

The day before they left, before he escaped without incident, she came up to him hesitantly. "Erik?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Maddy and Peter invited you for dinner tonight. They really want you to come." He didn't respond. "Will you?"

"That sounds terrible."

"Please? It'd mean a lot."

He turned away and continued to adjust his shirt sleeves. "Has she treated you kindly?"

"Yes. She's very nice to me." Christine took his hand and rubbed her thumb over the back of it. "I know you don't want to hear this. But…but I think one reason she likes me is that I'm the closest she can get to you. She wants to see you." A pause. "Come tonight. And if they are not good to you, we'll never see them again. I promise."

He grunted "It is going to be just…uncomfortable. And pointless. Chitchat. And I—"

"But if you're going to trust them with me, don't you want to see their home?" She knew the right things to say. He groaned. "Five minutes. Just say 'hi'?"

"Fine. Fine. We will do this wretched thing."

"We'll leave at any time you want," she said. "I promise."

Later that night, he stared at himself in the mirror before they departed. False face perfectly in place. A black suit that did not fit too loosely over his thin frame. _Who cared what they thought of him?_ Perhaps he did a little, and that annoyed the hell out of him. She wore a blue and white checkered sundress that tied around her neck and fitted her waist perfectly. She was too beautiful. He could think of other activities he'd rather be doing that night and told her this in terms that were not vague.

She blushed. "We will do that again, too, Erik."

When they drove up to the two-story white stucco home that evening, the front blinds were cracked open. Someone was watching them arrive and doing a poor job of hiding it. He rolled his eyes. He did not want to be here. His stomach was slowly sinking with a feeling of disdain.

The yard was well landscaped with thick grass and a few palm trees. Peter greeted them at the front door, wearing white golf shorts and a navy polo shirt. Sandals and a digital watch. He was of medium build and height with a full head of grey hair. He looked like—everything that Madeleine had probably wanted when she'd escaped to here. The perfect picture of upper middle class normalcy.

"Hey, Christine! Glad you came." Peter patted her shoulder as she passed. It was entirely innocent but still made him glare slightly. Old habits died hard. "And Erik! Finally." Peter looked him up and down, his gaze finally pausing on _his_ masked face. "Heard so much about you."

"Have you?" he dully inquired. Christine watched him, her eyes pleading for civility. "Well, Christine wished to come. So we are here."

"We've really enjoyed meeting her." Peter led them inside. Madeleine stood back, wringing a white dish towel in her slender hands. Her eyes were concerned, and her lips were pressed together. Perhaps she regretted her invitation. Did she fear _he_ would step into this tropical heaven and destroy everything she'd built over the last forty years? Unaware, Peter continued, "Christine said you designed your house. You're doing it for others now, too. That right?"

"Yes." He began to nervously run his fingers together, unused to idle chatter. "They saw our home. And wished for similar designs."

"Fascinating! Now that I'm retired, I'd really like to work on mine. But I'm not great with those kinds of projects. Maddy can tell you about me hammering my thumb into the wall a couple months ago. Black and blue. Right, dear?"

"Yeah," Madeleine softly replied. "He did do that." Christine softly laughed. There was an awkward silence that he certainly made no effort to fill. Most of his life had been one long awkward silence, really….

"And you make your own music?" Peter finally continued.

"Yes."

"What kind? Oh, sorry. Can I get you something to drink? A beer? Soda?"

"No. Thank you."

"All right. Anyway, what kind of music?"

"Classical," said Christine. "Mixed with other things. Like jazz. And instrumentals. It's wonderful!"

"Wow! Maddy! All this time you never told me about him? My wife keeps her secrets well. Jesus Christ." Peter was half-kidding and didn't see the forlorn look pass over Madeleine's face. "I didn't know a thing. Well, it's good to meet you. Let me show you what I've got cooking over here. Got steaks. Hotdogs. But good hotdogs! Not that cheap stuff from the store. Some chicken for Maddy—"

Peter was oblivious to all of it. And that was for the best. Life had obviously come easily to him. A career. A happy marriage. As a result, Peter had no chip on his shoulder. No reason to dig up secrets or make idiotic assumptions or compete. He talked about his grill and sports excessively. But there were worse crimes. And Peter was kind to Christine. That was really what mattered, why they had come here at all.

During dinner, Peter said, "So you were both in a nasty car accident, I heard. Must have been scary as heck. Being in a foreign country."

"Yes," said Christine, picking at her sour cream smothered baked potato. "But we're getting better."

"Good. Well, you just let us know if you ever need anything. Medical. Legal. We know some good people."

"Thank you," Christine replied. She glanced at _him. _He gave her the hint of a wry smile; she returned it. He felt the warmth of intimacy at that moment, at sharing all these little secrets, no matter how dark they were. Then Christine and Madeleine took over the conversation. They talked of spring clothing. And Christine apparently wanted bangs. She told them of her volunteer work, singing, and they seemed interested in that. And her future schooling. In an emergency, they would be good to her. He felt this.

Madeleine asked him if he wanted more salad. If he needed more to drink. "No," he always said. He was fine. And he thought he would escape that dinner without more awkward dialog. Peter had settled on the couch with a baseball game, his feet propped up and another beer in hand. _He_ headed for the front door. Christine stepped into the bathroom, so he stood alone in the darkened entryway, very ready to leave. A dog came up to him, so he scratched its ears.

And_ she_ came up behind him. He didn't acknowledge her until she spoke. "I was so happy to hear the news. Are you going to have a wedding?"

"We will have a quiet ceremony. Nothing elaborate. That is what she wanted." He still didn't look at her. _Where was Christine?_

"She looks much better than the last time I saw her. Healthier. And she can communicate well. I know you two take will care of each other."

"Yes."

"Erik."

"What?"

"Do you think you'll…have children?"

He flinched and said with slight aggravation, "I don't know. How is that your concern?" He couldn't help but whisper, "Ah. Are you worried there might be a repeat?"

"No! No, I didn't even think of that. Erik. No." A brief silence before she added, "If you do, I just…I just wondered if you'd let me see them."

He grunted. "You really care that much?"

"Of course I do."

He shrugged. "I guess that is up to her. You see, Madeleine, I don't know you. I still don't care if I know you. But she needs people in her life. So if you are kind to her, you will likely see us. And, if you are not, we will disappear. That is how this works."

"Of course I'll be kind to her. I…love Christine."

"It's very easy to love her," he softly agreed. "She is-" He could not continue; he was not going to choke up in front of this woman. Another silence.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Thank you for coming tonight. It really meant a lot."

Before he could pull away, Madeleine released him. The pressure lingered. Christine came to his side. She and Madeleine hugged. Peter stood and bid them goodbye-"Great to meet you both! Take care! Come back whenever you want!"

And then they got out of there.

"They invited us for Christmas," said Christine as they climbed into the car.

"That is up to you," he said, holding back a grunt of irritation.

"We'll see. Our last Christmas was wonderful. Just us in the mountains. But—I would like to come back here someday, Erik. If that's okay."

"You will," he said. "You did well here."

In fact, she'd seemed so happy in Florida that he worried she might be despondent when he took her back. But-

"Home!" she cried out when they arrived, dropping her suitcase and running into the house. She spun around and fell on the sofa, legs in the air. The kitten hopped up beside her, and Christine gave him a kiss on his fuzzy head. They'd paid an older woman who lived down the road to take care of the creature for a week.

"Back here with only your grouchy Erik?" he softly asked. "And that little beast." He pointed at the cat.

"I love it here! This is heaven." She reached for him, and he came to her.

And sometimes he nearly did forget….

Several days before they planned to get married, he had a nightmare of being underground. Of endless torture and despair. Of where he'd be right now if not for her. It was a short dream but still horrifying. He awoke with a gasp and sat up, confronted by their spacious bedroom.

Her seashells sat on the dresser. A music box. Pictures of landscapes on the walls. Darkened mountains. Storm clouds over the green plains. A city at night. He kissed her head. Then he slowly climbed out of bed and went to their office. To a small silver file cabinet that they kept locked and hidden behind a desk. He opened the drawer and dug through the papers. Finally, he found it.

_The Talking Corpse Chained to the Wall_

There it was. Entirely real. His hands trembled as he read through it. _How_ could this have been real?

Some things cannot be explained.

Perhaps that bothered him the most. He was of high intelligence and possessed many gifts. And still he did not know what had happened to him, what was out there lurking in dark corners where human eyes couldn't see. He did not understand. He stood and walked to the music room. He stared out the large window for several minutes, the diary entry dangling from his hand.

She came in and spoke behind him. "I still listen, too. We always will, I guess."

Her words startled him. They didn't speak of this often. "Yes. But I forget sometimes. That existence. It's fading." He held up the entry. "I had a dream, and I had to make sure."

She stared at him for a long moment. Lights from a car passed over them, causing the shadows to shift. Then she took a seat on the sofa and gestured to the spot next to her. He sat, and she embraced him. "Maybe you're supposed to forget," she murmured, stroking his dark hair. That, unlike his nose, had come in. He loved when she ran her hands through it. "Maybe that's what happens. Raoul is forgetting; I can tell when we talk. Maddy is, too."

"Do you forget?" he asked, leaning back.

"No." She shrugged. "But I think I'm supposed to remember that. To listen. Just in case."

His heart skipped a beat. "If you heard something, you would not chase it, right? You have done enough—"

"No. Of course not. But it's my job to be aware. To protect us. And…and our family, if we have one."

"Then I will never forget. It will not be your burden to bear alone."

"Thank you, Erik." She did sound relieved. "But…but you don't need to remember like this." She gently took the diary entry from him. "Don't torture yourself with this."

"How will I remember then?" he asked as they clasped hands. "If the memories are fading. And there is such joy. How?"

She smiled. "Remember that we fought a monster. And we won. Will you remember that?"

"Yes. I will never forget that." She leaned in to give him a slow kiss. Touch was still so magnificently important to them both. From the gentle to the healing to the frantic and fervent. They could never get enough of it.

They stared into the darkness outside for a few moments longer. She folded up the diary entry and locked it back in the cabinet. They went to bed.

But, true to her word, she always listened.

She listened on their wedding day. With a short white veil hanging from her golden hair, Christine glanced behind them and into the distance. He stood beside her on the top porch step, watching as she closed her eyes. A warm breezed tousled her hair and the lacy veil. Still, she listened. Until he picked up his beautiful new bride, carried her inside, and didn't let her go for the rest of the night.

And Christine listened when she first held their baby daughter.

She had desperately wanted to be a mother. But she'd feared that her mental weaknesses would make her an inept parent - if she drifted into space or had a panic attack when she was supposed to be watching the baby. The entire situation had made him nervously ill. He fretted about his past and own idiosyncrasies, and they'd had several arguments. But, after coming to terms with how much she desired a child, he'd had to make it work. He would not let that regret weigh upon her, another sacrifice. Another loss. If necessary, they could hire trustworthy help. And his work allowed him to be home most of the time.

After their daughter was born, he could never regret the decision. The child had Christine's nose and smile.

Still, they both feared that if—_if _the creature could return, _it _might choose to exact revenge on their offspring. What better way to devastate them?

The first night at home, Christine cradled the baby and closed her eyes, verifying that nothing lurked around them. She listened. Then she opened her lids and smiled, obviously feeling secure. Her fingers brushed against the infant's smooth red cheek. "She has your eyes. Look at her, Erik."

He spent an entire night guarding the front door.

"Everything is fine," Christine finally said. "We're safe. We can go to bed now. We'd better get some sleep before she wakes up again."

"I am waiting for _them._"

"Who?"

"Boys," he gravely replied. "Boyfriends," he darkly added.

Christine snorted. "Well, you'll have at least another fifteen years before they get here."

"_Fifteen?!_ It had damned well better be forty!"

But none showed up that night, so he finally went to bed. In truth, he had been watching for anything abnormal, for any clawed hand that might reach out from the shadows and steal all this away. He had so much to protect now, so much to lose.

She listened the longest when they had their son three years later. Her brow furrowed, and she concentrated so intensely that he feared she would hurt herself. Her eyes were squeezed closed as she clutched the boy in her arms. Their daughter bounced up and down beside Christine, begging to view her little brother.

"Anything?" he asked, his heart skipping a beat. He watched the infant's blue eyes to see if they focused on anything that wasn't there. He watched the tilt of the baby's head, ensuring that their son wasn't listening to a voice that did not come from his parents.

"No." Christine opened her eyes. "We are safe. There's nothing here."

But she never stopped listening. She guarded them. And he took care of her.

If she were gone for too long, lost in her private mental space…lost in thoughts and memories and dreams and nightmares, he would take her hand. He would say, "Return to us, my love. You belong here now."

And Christine would always open her eyes and come back to them. She never faded out for very long. Too many people loved her.

A cat at his feet. A flickering fireplace. The lingering scent of dinner. He treasured the nights on the couch - when three warm, breathing, sleeping angels curled up against him.

No wonder it was so hard for him to remember the past. But he did. For her sake, he never forgot.

Even as all was safe. And all was quiet.

And they could always say with perfect certainty-

"Goodnight."

_**FIN**_


End file.
